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justporo · 6 months

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Who's the goose... (2)

...that's on the loose? GOOSETARION! The adventures of Astarion being turned into a goose continue. Will he behave or annoy someone so much that his delicate goose neck will be in danger?

PART 1 | MASTERLIST | AO3

Author's Note: So, here we are... with the second part to this unhinged little idea - I had a lot of fun writing this, although if I gotta write someone honking one more time... Well, I'd do it... This beautiful BEAUTIFUL artwork is once provided by the wonderful, beautiful and incredibly talented @azaani-art (you bless us, love! Thank you for allowing me to use this!). And also @the-littlest-raindrop - if you wanna read you'll know why I tagged you! Please all enjoy! I'm excited to hear what you all think!

Pairing: Goosetarion(Astarion)/GN!Tav (You)

Rating: Still stupid

Warnings: ankles in danger (you guys didn't think I'd be serious about this, right?)

Wordcount: 5k

~~~

The next morning the whole group sat around the giant wooden table in the main room of the inn. You were pretty sure you looked like you had slept in the gutter last night.

Beside you sat the goose, craning its neck at everyone at the table but for once pleasantly un-hoking. Even Goosetarion must have realised that honking the house down at this time of day would have probably gotten him his neck wrung faster than he could have jumped off the bench and waddled away. Or maybe it was lingering humiliation from when he had tried several times to jump up on the bench, fluttering his wings as if desperately trying to take flight. It had taken several more tries – and serious hissing from his side to bar you from just lifting him up onto the bench. And even when the goose had managed to get a high enough jump, it had face-planted onto the table nearly knocking itself out because it hadn’t anticipated the physics of the unfamiliarly long neck.

The others had to make a serious effort to not burst out laughing, but the violent threat in Goosetarion’s red eyes had shut them up quickly. Nobody really wanted to feel the goose’s wrath – or teeth for that matter.

Now you softly and absent-mindedly petted the animal with strokes from its head down to its back. Trying to make up for his hurting ego. The rump was very busy wiggling again.

You hadn’t slept awfully much last night as could have been expected. Of course, you had taken Goosetarion to your shared room. The staff at the inn had at first protested. But the fact that the others had quickly jumped in to declare the animal your “emotional support goose” and the fact that you really almost had started crying right then and there had been convincing enough to allow the goose in your room. Although you were of course given some serious side-eyes. But you couldn’t care less about people’s opinions at the moment.

You had sat down Astarion in your room, removed your armour and had sat down on the bed, sinking down against the headboard, face buried in your hands. Your feelings had still been very much on the verge of overflowing leaving you in a state of emptiness and tension all at the same time.

Only when you had heard some rumbling and strained croaks did you realise that you kind of had forgotten Goosetarion. But when you had opened your eyes, you already saw how the goose was hopping up on the bedframe and dragging itself up on the mattress with its wings, making what would have possibly been laborious groans normally. It wasn’t exactly graceful, but you were impressed, nonetheless.

Astarion wandered over to where you sat with drawn up legs and then jumped onto your lap without hesitation. Some struggle followed in which the two of you tried to get comfortable on the bed. Which resulted in you getting whacked in the face by Goosetarion’s splayed wings several times and him face-planting onto your chest about an equal amount of times while trying to move around, losing balance.

Finally, when you had all settled down, Goosetarion had been all cosied up on your lap and made a small honk while looking at you.

You had started stroking him again.

“I’m so sorry this happened, Astarion, but to be honest, you really had it coming.”

“Honk!?”

“Because you don’t just go around trying to steal from anyone who looks at you funny!”

“Honk!”

“Let’s just… hope this will all be over soon. I promise I’ll protect you and take care of you – no matter what.” You had embraced the goose, burying your face in its feathers for a moment and deeply wished that soon it would be your vampire again.

Goosetarion had carefully placed his small head on your shoulder and given a very soft little honk. The weight on your shoulder had been so light it had barely been noticeable at all.

And that is how you had slipped into your dreams sometime: Sitting up against the headboard, goose on your lap. Your head had fallen back in an awkward angle that probably hadn’t been healthy for your neck. And the goose had been mirroring you with its long neck and head fallen back on your shoulder. Surely a sleeping position no real goose had ever occupied.

But now you sat at the inn table having breakfast and talked with the others about what your plans for the day were. It was to be more walking and talking to people.

You were rather relieved because that meant that you wouldn’t have to think too much about how to take care of the goose. You’d just have him tag along and try your best to stop him from biting anyone’s ankles or getting his neck twisted.

The group set off once everyone had finished eating. You swung your legs over and got up. Astarion eagerly jumped down from the bench and honked at you demandingly, immediately earning a hush from Gale and a tchk from Lae’zel. The goose wasn’t bothered by it, just kept looking at you, now spreading its wings a little. He honked again. It was obvious he wanted to be carried and was very demanding about it.

“Is that your definition of asking nicely to be lifted up? Because if yes, you need to work on your attitude”, you scolded him while deep down you were surprised how the vampire so blatantly dared to hold on to his desire to be petty and sassy.

Another honk – challenging now. The goose glowered at you, for lack of a better description, and you glowered back.

Then you just walked off, following the others which had already left the inn. And you were swift. Leaving no choice to the goose but having to waddle behind you as fast as his rubbery feet would go or risk being left behind.

You gave in pretty quickly afterwards. And if only because Lae’zel was almost already losing her mind about how slow you were going to be with the goose walking beside you.

Goosetarion willingly and humbly let himself be lifted and carried around then without another complaint. Actually, you got the feeling he was getting a bit too used to that already.

“Enjoying the luxury of being carried around by your loved one, Astarion?”, Halsin asked the goose a while after you had left the inn and walked around the city. Goosetarion had stretched out his head and looked at his surroundings curiously and cautiously from his privileged position.

At the question the goose’s head – which was comically staying in place despite the walking movements – had swung around and the question had been answered with a short honk that you could only describe as sassy. Then Goosetarion had angled his head in a way that was way too much Astarion in nature than should have been possible. The druid laughed while you saw that Gale shook his head disapprovingly.

You squeezed the goose just a little: “Well, don’t get used to it, Astarion, this is a once in a lifetime occurrence.”

In reply you got a honk that sounded like a pout.

The first half of the day then was spent just like yesterday: tiresomely walking around, trying to strike up conversations with strangers to get some information without being too suspicious. Which was kind of a challenge when you were carrying around a goose that had to comment on almost everything despite no one fully knowing what it wanted to say.

Around noon you decided to take a break. You picked out what seemed to be a market place in full swing and settled down around the fountain in the middle. Each and every one of you had grabbed something from the market stalls to eat – pies, fruit, Karlach had even gone for a portion of spit roast.

At one of the stalls a huge-bellied man in a very grimy apron had way to keenly asked for how much you would sell the goose. Goosetarion’s head had yanked straight upwards, and he had immediately started to scream bloody murder (in goose) while you had turned him away in your arms – away from this shady looking merchant. Panic immediately had shot through you and your eyes had widened as you yanked the goose away and as far out of reach as possible.

“The goose is not for sale”, you had screamed hysterically in response.

“Unfortunate, how much good does it do if you’re only carrying it around? You all a bunch of leaf-eaters or what? This could be a nice dinner for my whole family!”, the man had yapped, obviously angry by your unwillingness to negotiate. You’d had your doubts about the family claim. Especially since you had seen the very suspicious looking dishes he seemingly had had to offer at his stall. They had all looked rank and the longer you’d stood there you’d also smelled their foulness. You hadn’t even dared to think about how old these must be.

“Istik, the bird is not for sale!”, Lae’zel had entered the conversation and drawn a dagger, taking a threatening step towards the huge man.

The other companions each all had taken up readied stances too – hands not too casually wandering to their weapons and stepping in front of you and Goosetarion in protection.

And thankfully, it had been left at that. The man lifting up his hands in defence as he had mumbled something incoherent and turned around again. Astarion had honked once more in victory (as if he had contributed to anything) and waved his head that would have normally swept his white curls back. As a goose it had just looked a bit delusional.

Now you sat on the cobblestone ground with Goosetarion on your lap. You had already gotten into a routine it seemed, it was awkwardly comforting. But somewhen when you were still nibbling on some apples and cheese, the goose wiggled off your lap. It seemed he was bored by just sitting around. Or maybe it was also that all of the group happily munching away had made him think of his own hunger that he was currently unable to satisfy.

He eyed the rim of the fountain suspiciously while everyone was busy chatting and eating. Only out of the corner of your eye did you see how he spread out his wings, his neck stretched out and started swinging – almost like a cat preparing to make a big leap somewhere.

Was he… was he trying to fly?

The goose made a leap, desperately flapped its wings and just for a tiny moment actually seemed to gain some air. But the moment passed as soon as it began and Goosetarion full on crashed into Lae’zel who had just gotten back from also buying a portion of spitroast. The githyanki had only just sat down when the goose fell onto her, almost causing her to drop her food.

Lae’zel immediately had her dagger out that - not so long ago- had been used to protect the same goose it was threatening now. The githyanki cussed out the animal that darted back to the safety of your lap much faster than you could have imagined. With desperate honking the goose jumped on your lap and tried to even climb up onto your shoulders. Lae’zel was still cursing and stepping closer, dagger in hand.

“Astarion! Lae’zel!”, you both called them out.

Goosetarion gave self-righteous honk while the fighter reluctantly sheathed her dagger again and went back to her lunch.

“And you are getting off my godsdamned shoulders, you silly goose, you’re too heavy!”, you added with some anger as Goosetarion was just about to figure out an even more privileged position. You shoved him off, causing him to croak in disappointment. And you made a point to ignore the annoying goose for some time after that, joining the conversation of the others – parenting measures.

So, Goosetarion got bored again with simply sitting around, waiting for you lot to get going again. He started to waddle around you and the other companions – as if he was deep in thought and tried to sort them out by wandering back and forth.

At one point a small child came by and interrupted him by pointing at him, loudly screaming “DUCKY” and then toddled away again. Goosetarion looked taken aback, honked in confusion and annoyance and then went back to his wandering.

Jaheira and you were discussing an action plan as to where to go next since you had the most knowledge of the city. Actually, Astarion would probably have had valuable input. But getting that input across was a bit difficult at the moment. He tried nonetheless.

The goose loudly honked when Jaheira proposed something and shook his head in a comical way then started to flail around his wings. The flailing and honking really did nothing though to get his point across. When Goosetarion noticed that you were all just staring at him in confusion he even looked like he was attempting to perform a face-palm. Then he gave up with another defeated honk.

The small child from before chose this particular moment when everyone was still staring at the goose to return. It was carrying quite a large piece of bread and from a few feet away hurled it at Goosetarion whose back was towards the child. “FOR DUCKY!”, it screamed while putting all its power into the throw.

Apparently at this young age the child was not yet very proficient with improvised throwing weapons because the throw went absolutely awry. Or rather, the child was in fact a prodigy because the piece of bread hit the goose squarely in the back of its head, making it squeak and lose balance.

The kid just laughed giddily and clapped its hands, hopping up and down. Obviously, it was expecting the “duck” to happily devour the generous offering of food now.

Goosetarion regained his balance quickly and turned around. He was dangerously silent.

You immediately felt the tension radiating from the small body, so you carefully got up. To be ready for whatever.

The goose stared down the child who was still jumping around cheerfully. But the longer “DUCKY” just stared at it, not moving, just with a lot of fury in its tiny red eyes, it realised that something was wrong. The kid calmed down until it looked downright frightened. You saw the child’s bottom lip starting to wobble, ready to start crying at any moment.

And then Goosetarion stormed towards the child, big wings spread wide, neck stretched out as far as possible and screaming as loud as his lungs allowed.

The kid started screaming as well and desperately tried to run away, almost stumbling over its own feet in the attempt to not get assaulted by the vicious goose.

You rushed after the murderous animal, trying to get to it before it could brutalise the child’s ankles. And thankfully Astarion was still not very adept to running around as a goose and you could easily catch up to him and grab him.

He desperately flapped his wings trying to free himself from your arms while still honking like mad. Your ears almost immediately started ringing. Incredible how much anger could fit into such a tiny body.

The child was already long gone and probably traumatised for life by this oversized duck trying to hunt it down. But Goosetarion was still livid even when you picked him up while holding him as far away from you as possible to avoid getting whacked by him again.

“Astarion, will you calm the fuck down?”, you yelled in between angry honking. You yourself were getting more than just annoyed by his behaviour – first he got himself into this pickle and now he caused even more chaos instead of sitting it out. There definitely was something to be said about the chaotic nature of geese and the vampire rogue fitting very well together.

The rest of the group had been watching the scene. Gale had his face buried in his hands. Most of the rest was at least silently snickering while Karlach was just very openly losing it again.

You sat the angry goose down on the stone rim of the fountain in an attempt to force him to calm down. “Time out, Astarion, godsdammit! Either you behave or I might be thinking about selling your poultry ass off, yet!”, you gave him the ultimatum and pointed a finger at him angrily.

He tried to snap at it. You could barely believe the audacity.

“For someone with so much neck to wrangle at the moment you should really be careful about who you piss off, Astarion”, Wyll said who was casually leaning against the fountain.

The goose stared at him. But Wyll just shrugged.

“Are we going to be nice now?”, you asked Goosetarion. The gaze of the red button eyes wandered back to you. The goose gave one more, curt honk, then settled down in a manner that made you think it would have crossed its wings over its chest in annoyed defeat had it been able to do so.

You stared at him angrily for a moment longer then went back to eating your scrawny lunch and talking with the others. You kept talking about different possible ideas on how to go forward. The goose meanwhile was brooding while sitting on the rim of the round fountain.

After a while, it seemed Goosetarion had enough of being well behaved and only listening while not being able to throw in his snide comments. He hopped off the fountain wall, specifically choosing Gale’s lap as a landing pad and making the wizard wince while the goose jumped off him and sauntered away.

He wandered around a little and honked dismissively when you told him to not to go too far. But for the moment you were already so fed up with him you really couldn’t care less.

The group finished up their lunch and decided on their plan. Then you all packed up your things and were ready to leave. And only then did you notice that the goose was nowhere to be found.

“Astarion?”, you asked and looked around. Some of the others had already started walking again.

“Was he not just wandering off towards some of the market stalls?”, Halsin asked. You simply nodded as you started looking around with rising panic.

“Yes, but I… I mean he wouldn’t have just left, right?”, you said as you ran from side to side and hoped to spot a feisty goose somewhere. You screamed his name again in hopes to get a honk in response. But nothing.

“You don’t think he would have wandered off just to spite us, right?”, you asked Halsin again. The druid in the meantime had shouted to the others to stop and come back.

“As much as I think that he likes to get on people’s nerves deliberately… I don’t think he would walk off and jeopardize his own safety – so no”, Shadowheart replied as she came back and caught on to what was happening.

“Well, then where could the little rascal have gone?”, Karlach asked in response.

A thought raced through your mind when she said that, and it hit you as you looked at Karlach.

“The suspicious merchant!”, you exclaimed and panic reached new heights within you.

“Let me just”, Gale started when he connected the dots and immediately started murmuring an incantation. Meanwhile the group had reassembled at the fountain and quickly was informed about what was happening. You stared at the wizard as he had gone silent and impatiently awaited the result of whatever it was he was doing.

The wizard’s eyes had lit up and he was focusing. Then his eyes flashed back to normal, his eyes found yours, worry flashing in them: “I feel him, he’s moving – quickly. And I’m pretty sure that is not goose speed.”

Your eyes widened when Gale confirmed your suspicion. You looked around at the others who mirrored your expression and without out a word you all readied to take on the pursuit.

“This way”, the wizard exclaimed with an outstretched arm, and you all started running.

You ran through the market and then through the streets of Baldur’s Gate, following whatever direction Gale gave you who was quickly out of breath but did his best to carry on.

You were already almost back at Wyrm’s Crossing – the houses a lot smaller and simpler here than the townhouses in the core city. And surely after a few minutes you could make out desperate honking somewhere in front of you. You closed in on the goose-napper!

When it seemed, you were only a corner away you already reached for your dagger – ready to do whatever it might take - but Wyll grabbed your hand. “Let’s be clever about this, let’s not risk that delicate goose neck being broken”, he said to you with a sympathetic glance. Reluctantly, you put back your dagger, at least for the time being.

You peeked around the corner and sure as all Nine Hells you saw the full-bellied man from earlier with a wiggling, struggling and screaming goose under his arms turn another corner. From there on out you followed the villain with some distance to avoid him noticing your little rescue party.

You followed him up to a little free-standing wooden house. It was old and shabby and made you further suspicious of him. What kind of shady business could someone possibly be up to in there?

You saw how he was putting some stuff down in front of the porch of the house, then went inside with the screaming animal still under his arm.

Again, you were ready to just go and immediately tear this house down. You were almost blind with your fear and worry for Astarion and with white-hot rage. But again, Wyll grabbed your arm and made a motion that conveyed that you should walk around the house.

Very impatiently you nodded, and you all snuck around the house which was barely a step up from a shack. From the inside you could actually hear the excessive honking of the goose now. Your heart almost broke and your body was tense with rash panic.

On the rear side of the house was a scruff garden fenced in by a rundown fence and a small wooden stump. It was almost an insult to even call it a garden; it was more of an abandoned plot.

It looked like the stump there was used for chopping wood. An axe was planted in the ground beside it. But there were also dark stains on it that could only make you horridly guess what else might be chopped there.

Wyll – taking over the role as tactician right then and there – made you wait while you were almost ready to scale a wall. At least by the excessive continued honking you still knew that Goosetarion was alive.

Wyll’s patience and insistence paid off because after mere minutes, the man came out of the house again, carrying the goose, some stuff in a basket hanging from his arm and of course – a ginormous cleaver.

Your heart dropped and the goose too now looked just very scared and helpless with how it hung from the goose-napper’s arm. Head hanging low, seemingly having given up all hope of being saved. You drew an arrow and readied at on your bow as Wyll waved the others to get in position.

The man slammed the cleaver into the wooden block and then with both hands placed down the goose on its back. The animal was barely even struggling anymore, just fearfully squeaking and noticing that almost broke your heart completely in these frightful moments.

The villain then ripped out the cleaver from the wooden stump and lifted it up high. You could see the sunlight glint on the shabby silver.

Wyll was still motioning everyone to hold but your strings snapped.

“GET AWAY FROM THE GOOSE!”, you screamed at full lung capacity while loosening the arrow from your bow string simultaneously.

The man hesitated and had only started to turn to you as the arrow struck him squarely in the shoulder holding the cleaver.

He immediately dropped the lifted knife with a guttural scream, letting it fall. It land on the wooden stump again – missing the goose’s head by mere inches. You only saw how the goose’s head dropped back with a small relieved honk, almost as if it had fainted shortly because of the shock.

Then absolute chaos broke out.

You all rushed towards the man who was screaming in pain and was already pulling at the arrow in his shoulder. Your eyes were solely on the goose but then Halsin, Karlach and most of the others overtook you and you lost sight of the animal as your friends stormed onto the man.

Coincidentally, some other shady looking folk came out of the back of the house, alarmed by the commotion. Your suspicions and gut feeling were confirmed then. You didn’t need to know anymore at this point, you had no mercy in your bones for them in this moment.

The thugs engaged your group in combat. In the meantime, you were desperately trying to spot the goose while your friends easily managed to keep the enemies in check.

Finally, you spotted Goosetarion! He had jumped off the wooden stump and seemingly had gotten into the basket the man had been carrying. And obviously the basket had contained some more knives because the goose was now firmly holding one in his beak. Astarion certainly had gotten out of his stupor and was now flailing his wings and threatened everyone with the blade he was carrying – everyone’s ankles were definitely in grave danger. Almost no difference from the usual rogue.

Your group easily fought off the thugs as you sneaked through the chaos of the battle towards the goose to grab and secure it. When the goose saw you, it hopped happily and dropped the knife to honk joyfully at you. You rushed over, kneeled down and wrapped him in your arms as he kept honking and jumping – obviously very relieved that you came to his rescue.

The fight was very quickly turning to your favour. But then as you kept holding onto the poor little animal you heard something else. You couldn’t quite discern it at first, but you heard loud screaming. And as you tried to peek through the legs of everyone around you, you saw some people in armour coming closer.

“City watch”, you whispered to yourself. Goosetarion’s head swung around as well and he gave another honk as he saw what you saw.

“CITY WATCH”, you yelled louder so everyone would hear.

That made almost everyone stall. You quickly got up and wildly gestured at your friends to just get going. So they did – and the fight turned into running from city guards way quicker than you thought it possible.

You didn’t even take one look back at the assailants and the goose-napper. You were just completely happy with running away with your goose soulmate safely in your arms. The adrenaline of the fight and the panic before almost awarding you wings. The only reason you took a look back was to make sure that all of your group were safely with you.

When you had brought what you thought was a safe distance between you and your pursuers, you just sank to the ground with Goosetarion wrapped securely in your arms. You nuzzled your face into his feathers and started crying.

The last day had literally been too much for you. You were in desperate need of a break and some strong alcohol. Someone put their hand on your shoulder as you cried into Astarion’s feathering. You softly slid down against the rough brick wall you were leaning against until you were laying on your back, completely dissolved in your tears. You were still burying your face when even through your closed eyelids you could see a purple flash of light and suddenly the weight laying on top of you was much heavier than before.

You opened your eyes and almost didn’t believe them when you saw Astarion – the real elven Astarion lay on top of you. Reflexively your arms and legs wrapped around the man to hold him as close as possible.

“Oh gods”, was the only thing you managed to mutter as more tears kept coming. The vampire in turn wrapped his arms around you as well. He was panting and coughing – surely a response of straining his voice with all the excessive honking. You rolled around in your forceful hug until you were laying on top of the former goose.

And then you just stayed like this for a long moment while your friends watched out for you and gave you two a moment of just holding each other. Making sure everything was fine and letting the realisation settle in.

You buried your face at Astarion’s shoulder and held him as tightly as your body allowed.

“Hello, my love”, Astarion whispered hoarsely to you as he started to softly caress your shoulders, arms and back.

You sobbed and lifted your head from his shoulder. You saw how he softly smiled at you and that his red eyes were dangerously wet as well as he kept holding onto you.

You didn’t know what to say nor did you trust your mind enough to form coherent sentences yet. You were just unbelievably happy that you had him back with you. So you just stared at the humanoid vampire again and didn’t let go of him.

“Honk?”, Astarion made in an attempt to stop you from crying by cracking a joke. You whacked his arm and pulled him in closer again. Then you whacked his arm again.

“If you’re ever going to honk at me again-“, you started making a threat.

“I’ll happily promise you not to”, Astarion immediately replied, pressed his forehead to yours and cupped your face with one of his hands – graciously reminding you that he was fully back with you again.

And then he pressed his lips to yours, confirming the promise he had just made to you.

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mywritingonlyfans · 9 months

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Rapture. // Cillian Murphy X Reader. (Smut!)

prompt: You're younger, and love partnered with Cillian in filming a movie. He's developed certain feelings for you and finding himself struggling with them recently, until things get worse with the idea of a sex scene being added to the script. (age gap, wax play and some other sex stuff)

words: 4,3K.

He had received the script update that morning, and as he saw your eyes shift away from him during casual conversations before rehearsals, he knew you had read the new scenes. Both of you were aware of the possibility of that much-discussed sex scene that the director was considering adding. However, neither of you had imagined how it would play out, and the thought of being partially undressed in front of each other felt somewhat odd. Still, Cillian couldn't help but envision the words he had read earlier that morning coming to life in just a few weeks' time.

Now, you were sitting across from him, wearing a loose blouse and comfortable shorts, with your legs crossed. Your fingers tapped lightly on the script as you read your lines. As the others left the room, he realized that your nervousness wasn't about needing to rehearse in a few minutes, but about him being there. Cillian had initially dismissed his thoughts about you, attributing them to the recent divorce he was going through. However, he soon realized that these feelings were more than just passing thoughts.

He had already developed a pure and genuine admiration for you. He found himself lost in daydreams of conversations you could have, where he could rest your head on his chest and kiss your forehead, assuring you that everything was alright. Just as he found himself reliving the moments when you would get excited and talkative about the books you were reading after he mentioned that he had already read them. Each time you passionately shared your thoughts and enthusiasm for the stories, he couldn't help but be captivated by your animated expressions. The way your eyes would light up, the gestures you made, and the genuine joy in your voice made him smile, even long after the conversations had ended.

Yet, your expressions, your smiles, and your worries were too precious for him, but he reminded himself daily that such feelings were wrong, even though he couldn't stop them from growing.

What used to be harmless had taken a different turn after those new scenes were added to your interactions. Reading the scene had been somewhat painful, but seeing you there in person made it even more overwhelming (though not necessarily bad). The room was small, with scented candles around, something the director believed would help the actors feel at ease, though that wasn't the result Cillian was experiencing. He was practically lying in front of you, trying to make himself comfortable, avoiding looking into your eyes, though he hadn't noticed that his hands were sweaty and his breathing was heavier.

Still, he mustered the courage to gaze at you for a brief moment, trying to keep his thoughts from spiraling. "You've read it, haven't you? How do you feel?" Your nervous laughter was adorable, and your hands tightened around the script, making him notice how delicate and smaller they were compared to his own. "Yeah, I read it," your voice sounded weak, and he waited for your prolonged sigh before you continued. "I've never done something like this before, not even in theater." His face turned red, and he tried to comfort you with just a look. Touching you at this moment felt like a terrible idea, but he still did it, sitting next to you, making sure his shoulder touched yours. Contrary to what he thought, you seemed to relax at the contact, appearing more relieved. "It must be strange having to do this scene with me, given that I have no experience. Sometimes I feel like I'm not bringing positive results to your work." He immediately shook his head, hating it when you belittled yourself. You were incredibly talented.

Still, he lingered on those words. How inexperienced were you really? He had to control himself not to sound breathless as he continued, "You actually make it more enjoyable, and it'll be fine. If you agree, we can go through the lines before filming the scene. And if there's anything I can do to make you feel more at ease with this or anything else, I'll be right here." You turned to him, your angelic face now less worried, and nodded, unsure of what to say. There was a comfortable silence, and Cillian found himself smiling with closed eyes. Stopping these thoughts might be better, but they were inevitable. All he could do was wait and deal with it when the time came, even if there were more scenes after this, as well as marketing and interviews after all the filming...

...

He woke up feeling hot, drops of sweat on his temples and his chest damp. His mouth was dry, and his mind was still on your slightly parted lips, imagining how they would grow wetter as you felt him on your skin the previous night. He felt tight in his shorts, and your scent near him caused a pounding in his head. You were peacefully asleep as if you had never given yourself to him, as if you hadn't suggested adding more intensity to your lovemaking after exhausting all your muscles and neurons together. He hugged your body tighter, wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you closer against him. You snuggled into him, and he brushed your hair away from your face and neck, kissing the spot with caution, yet urgency, until you slowly woke up and reciprocated. Your touch was delicate and gentle, just as he had fantasized before, and it fed his mind entirely.

And you felt like you could still taste yourself on him as he intensified the kisses, and your control was slipping away with each firm squeeze he gave your hips and how solidly hard he was against you. Cillian was aware that you enjoyed it—the marks left, the momentary pain when he bit your thigh, and the darker hues that you hid the next day from the intense way he kissed your breasts while you rode him. Your serene eyes and slightly parted lips showed calm facial expressions, and you found yourself surrendering to him fully. Despite no apparent reason except him being older than you, and even though it might be considered inappropriate, he found himself enjoying the thought while your features became even more devoted.

He unbuttoned your last buttons, leaving his hands free to explore every inch of you, and smiled at your soft moan when his fingers touched the marks under your breast. He kissed the spot, running his tongue over the sensitive skin, and grunted at your soft whimper. Your head was buried deep in the pillow, and Cillian didn't hesitate to position himself so he had a full view of you.

"I have an idea, I think you'll like it," he whispered, out of breath, and you chuckled in response. The room was still dark, far from dawn, and the only illumination came from the scented candles you kept on the nightstand to create a soothing sleeping environment. He had them well-reserved in his mind at the moment.

"Can I hear it first, sir?" you asked curiously, completely surrendering to this. Cillian loved how you trusted him without even needing to hesitate, even though there was no apparent reason to trust him other than him being older than you, and even though it might be considered inappropriate. He found himself enjoying that thought as your features became even more devoted. He nodded and unbuttoned your last buttons, leaving his hands free to explore every inch of you, smiling at your soft moan when his fingers touched the marks under your breast. He kissed the spot, running his tongue over the sensitive skin, and grunted at your soft whimper. Your head was buried deep in the pillow, and Cillian didn't hesitate to position himself so he had a full view of you.

"I'll try it, and you'll tell me if it's not okay, alright?" You were a bit whiny and clearly still sensitive from the previous hours, and he loved that. Your gaze was satisfied, and your muscles visibly relaxed; he loved the effect he had on you. You nodded, "I'm okay, Cill." Your hands went to his hair as he moved to your collarbone, showering it with kisses, bites, sucks, and eventually, firm grips. He could taste the flavor of your moans and cries on the tip of his tongue.

Something about it felt so real it burned in him. The recorded scene of the film was recurrent and he was there confirming the perfection of what he had seen before.

He enjoyed the way you let him do whatever he wanted with you, how it consumed his mind and forced him to maintain control, not to go too far with you. The knowledge that no one had touched you before, tasted you, or marked you in such an intense way only heightened everything further. His teeth chattered, and his knees felt weak at what was to come.

Pulling away, he gracefully tugged on your hair, and his chest was filled with your half-closed, half-tired gaze that seemed to pierce him. He rubbed against the sheets beneath him, feeling sore just from the thought alone, and you chuckled sweetly. His head swirled, and he leaned over and grasped the candle holder, his fingertips briefly turning red from the heat. You paid more attention, adjusting yourself on the pillow, but he disapproved, "You don't need to do that; I want you to relax like before, princess. Just focus on emptying your mind, lie down and be cute."

You did nothing but nod and return to your previous position, but this time letting your body go limp wasn't so easy. You could feel how wet you were from the mere thought of what had already corrupted your mind. Still between your legs, Cillian caressed the inside of your thigh, and you realized you had closed them; your mind was cluttered and hard to control. You spread them apart, leaving no room for ambiguity, making it clear that you didn't want him to hold back with whatever this was. He positioned himself better between you, allowing you to feel how heavy he was even with layers of fabric between you—his shorts and your panties. You could swear you already had a wet spot in yours. Your chest was desperate, rising up and falling down slowly, and Cillian couldn't look at you without wiping the satisfied smile off his face.

He raised the candle holder, and you could feel the heat on your breasts, your nipples excited by the sensation. The flicker of the fire was reflected in his eyes, and your lips pressed firmly together. You stifled a whimper, but couldn't hold back the whining when the wax dripped onto your sensitive skin that had already been exhausted by him. "I want to hear you, don't hold back," his high-pitched voice with a serious expression, his lines well-defined from how focused he was, left you dazed, and you needed to grind against him strongly, causing both of you to grunt and release the air from your lungs. He was happy with this, happy that you were desperate and that he was causing you some pain.

Cillian lifted the candle again and watched the droplets of wax fall onto you, tracing a line from the center of your breasts to your lower belly. Compared to his, your face was angelic with each movement, the soft moans leaving your expression even more inviting as you felt small in front of him. Your stomach clenched, and your face displayed a mixture of pain along with soft, adorable moans that made him want to explode. His hands trembled, and he had to focus hard not to finish right then and there and be done with it.

"Fuck, pumpkin, you look so good," and you enjoyed how seeing you like this had that effect on him. Your eyes closed, and everything felt intensified; your hips involuntarily spasmed against his, but it was a futile act. He audibly laughed from time to time, sweet and mature yet perverse, as if to make it clear how satisfying this was for him, and it left you completely dizzy and longing for more. He peeled off some hardened wax from your skin, admiring the marks it had left, and after massaging the area for a while he allowed the liquid to accumulate as it burned, running his tongue over the area and sucking the skin to him.

Your nails dug into his shoulder with enough force to leave crescent moons, and he let go, his teeth clearly imprinted on your skin, your fervor only making him more determined. He ran his thumb over the spot that would later be darkened and poured the excess of wax into you. Your legs tightened around him, and your hands grasped the sheets, tears welling up in your eyes, and your whimpering was soft but pleading, not exactly knowing what plea was being conveyed through it all. "Fuck, Cill, fuck, fuck," you tried hard for some relief. He halted his movements, forcing your legs to stop and holding your arms down to the mattress. He was delicate yet firm, just as you needed. You had a safe word; he knew you were okay, you were just trying to get his attention.

The holder, with the candle still burning, was now beside the sheets next to you. "Look at me, babygirl." You swallowed hard, tears streaming down the sides of your face. "Let's be good and not knock over the candle," he said firmly and clearly, and you nodded in pure eagerness, watching his well-defined and prominent muscles due to the force with which he was holding you. He kissed your face, wiping away the salty dampness, then moved to your mouth, which you wisely captured in a somewhat desperate act. He pulled away slowly, a thin trail of saliva connecting you both and slowly fading away.

He chuckled, and with no more, held your jaw and used his thumb to make you open your lips for him, sealing them with his, and soon you felt the buildup in you, and with a fuller sigh, you swallowed his breath over the messy kisses, feeling somewhat comforted. He caressed your cheek with his fingers, studying you, and you stuck your teeth into them, still trying not to move too much and be good. It was obvious you were struggling with this task. "It's good, Cill, I don't mind." He continued with more kisses and wet bites on your body, tightly gripping the open bars of your shirt with a gentle yet firm grip, almost causing your back to lift slightly off the mattress in need of him. It wasn't hard to tell you were younger, just looking at your genuine eyes was enough, and the reminder of that, that it was wrong in a way, made him want more of it all.

"Stay still, or we won't get anywhere, pumpkin," he said, and indeed you had forgotten about the candle by your side. You couldn't and wouldn't let it fall. He still sensed your scent so prominently on you, a lingering blend of sweat from the night before. Dry droplets adorned your panties, and a damp spot in the center was visibly apparent; it was adorable in his eyes. He kissed the area, gently brushing his nose against it, and you let out a graceful sigh. And once again, he found himself immersed in the feeling of having you like this, a sensation that was exclusively his. No one else had the privilege.

Unable to hold back any longer, Cillian pushed the thin fabric down and traced his tongue through you. He was familiar with it, but each time he tasted you, it fueled him with more energy. He didn't need to go too deep; you were already sticky enough, and yet clearly sensitive, a delightful mess nonetheless. Cillian pushed your swollen lips up, reaching your intended spot, and he licked it avidly. You gasped, your fists clenching the sheets. He blew on the spot and sucked on it for his own pure pleasure; he loved how the smell and taste lingered vividly in his mind afterward. However, he knew neither of you could last much longer in this way, and it wasn't how he wanted to end things.

He tightened his fingers on your thighs, using more of you, already feeling his chin and cheeks sticky from you. Reluctantly, he withdrew, mesmerized by how your essence still overflowed his mouth as he swallowed deeply, seeking oxygen. Your whimpering turned more pleading and disapproving, and he understood; he felt the same way, sore and neglected, begging for any hint of relief.

"I'm being good, Cill." Your eyes were wide open as you pleaded your case. He nodded, wiping the corners of his mouth with his fingers and still licking them to avoid any waste. It only quickened your breathing, and he felt a twinge of pity.

"You are, babygirl, you're being wonderful." He massaged his fingertips into you, spreading the burning sensation. You wouldn't be able to stay still even if you wanted to.

"You're okay, right?" he asked, pushing his fingers in slowly and deftly to fill you, watching your eyes squeeze shut tightly and your back arching a little.

"I am. I'd tell you if I weren't," you sounded weak, with sweat glistening on your forehead. It wasn't a very convincing vision, but Cillian trusted that you'd speak up if something was wrong. He moved his fingers until you got accustomed to the feeling and relaxed, making sure you wouldn't have any trouble taking him after. But you were so wet that he knew you could handle him easily even without much stretching. He made a mental note to try that later.

He pulled his fingers away, his hand sticky and wet from the excess that had dribbled, his mind taken by you, all the positions, and possibilities.

"No waste, remember?" You recalled something he had told you. Soon, your hands were around his wrist, and he didn't hesitate to let you take his fingers into your mouth, enveloping them and sucking on your sweet flavor, your eyes closing as he savored the sensation only he could describe. Your touch of sweetness and genuineness taking him over completely.

"Enough," he declared, pulling them away from you, leaving you with sad, pleading eyes. You could easily be death of him if you wanted.

You felt a bit hazy, things moving fast but still light, and surprisingly comforting after just waking up. You couldn't say when or how, but as you shifted slightly in bed and your eyes met his, he had already managed to shed his shorts. He was pulsating; he wouldn't last much longer, and you could tell he had held back for quite some time until then.

"I love how you look," he chuckled, smugness evident. His cheeks and the tip of his nose were flushed from the stress. His hair, with some strands of gray, fell over his face, and before you could brush it away, he held your arms again. You gasped, hesitating, and he forced your body onto the mattress, his weight and legs spreading yours apart. Lightly, he closed the gap between you, then settled inside you. As he had imagined, he slid in skillfully. Your head was thrown back, and you felt complete ecstasy just from finally having him after such a wait, even though it burned, and Cillian didn't feel much different.

His grunts were deep, and it made you even more flustered and messy for him. He rose, still dripping from your body, holding the candle holder. Even though he hadn't planned to tease since he was just as eager, he proceeded anyway. His hand rested on your waist, and without moving, he allowed you to ride him slowly with lazy thrusts to get what you wanted. You were shy, and your movements were as delicate as your body, adjusting to his as if you couldn't let him know. Soon he would be emptying himself inside you, deep, and that made him pant. In the meantime, he measured the droplets of wax over your belly and breasts, watching in awe as your body trembled from exhaustion.

Your moans were mostly breathless tones, and your mouth remained partially open. Your eyes never left him, of how his v-line joined yours as he filled you perfectly, until all the air left your lungs. He let a few drops fall on his own abdomen, grunting hoarsely at the warmth of him, and he smiled sweetly as your hips stopped their motion, and you focused solely on watching him.

Cillian paused, gently placing the candle holder back on the nightstand, and he tenderly turned you over onto your belly on the bed. You complied with grace, leaning forward to be closer to him, not holding back your affection. He cradled you, running his fingers through your hair, and his body welcomed yours against his chest. With utmost care, he joined with you, moving deep and fervently, his movements filled with passion, turning your whimpers into soft moans of pleasure.

The sight of you brought him immense joy, and he cherished the intimacy you shared. He was overwhelmed by the depth of his feelings for you, and he wanted nothing more than to fill you up warmly. He knew he had to be gentle, to ensure your comfort, and to respect your boundaries. Even more knowing you weren't used to that.

With each tender touch, he felt the connection between you both, savoring the moments of ecstasy that flowed between your bodies. He marveled at the depth of your trust in him, and he felt an overwhelming desire for more and more of you.

As he continued, he held you close, your hands seeking his to anchor you in the intensity of the experience. The room was filled with the sweet sounds of your pleasure, and he was enthralled by the way your body responded to his touch.

He adored every moment, every caress, and every gasp that escaped your lips. As your passion reached its peak, he held you tightly, ensuring you felt safe and into his arms. Your shared climax made him dizzy, leaving you both breathless and content.

Afterwards, he stroked your back, waist, and shoulders, reveling in the intimacy you had just shared. He admired the marks and traces left on your body.

"I treasure every moment with you," he whispered, his voice filled with adoration and a strong accent.

You smiled softly, feeling the warmth of him envelop you. His presence brought you comfort and peace, and you knew that you were deeply his.

With a caring touch, he wiped away the traces of passion from your lips, and you savored the lingering taste of him on your tongue. You nestled even closer to him, and he let you, holding you tighter. You could still feel him oozing between your legs, the liquid turning cold, tingling a little from the soreness, but it felt great. You knew he would treat you like precious pearls, bathing you and leaving you clean before you went to sleep, and that was comforting.

"I'd never let a single drop go to waste," you said, your voice filled with sincerity. Your eyes are genuine and serene as you watch him, as if you really had no dimension to it. And then, you got filled into his solemn and comforting laughter at your fragile soul causing a pleasant vibration in your body.

...

His eyes opened as if breaking free from a suffocating hold, his head emerging above water, and oxygen flooding back into his lungs. Nevertheless, he remained still, feeling a warm weight on his shoulder and his pants suddenly tighter and less comfortable. Slowly, awareness seeped into his brain, and he became conscious of his surroundings. He felt a sense of worry, unable to move even if he wanted to. Gently, he brushed aside strands of hair from your face without touching your skin, observing how peacefully you rested against him, completely oblivious to his internal turmoil when it came to you.

He gazed at the ceiling, still wrapped in the comfort of your body's warmth against his own. Despite his mind being entangled with images of you, with your hand between your thighs and your cheek pressed against his shoulder, your lips slightly parted and looking so delicate and untouched, he couldn't bring himself to meet your eyes directly anymore. The once sweet thoughts now mingled with wilder and more fervent desires, a concoction of heated emotions that overwhelmed him. He felt like he wouldn't be able to endure all of it until the end. He already felt completely entangled and trapped.

As he lay there, he found himself torn between the conflicting emotions that had taken hold of him. The intensity of his feelings for you had reached a point where he couldn't contain them any longer. It was as if everything had shifted, and what was once a tender connection now burned with a passionate fire. He did desire you and that horrible way, but he had also fallen for you, and it frightened him.

The realization that he had developed such strong emotions for someone so close and yet so out of reach weighed heavily on him. He couldn't help but wonder what would happen if you ever found out, or worse, if he acted on those impulses. He wished he could go back to the simpler times, when he could bask in the innocence of your presence. But it was too late. He had crossed a threshold, and there was no turning back. The feelings were there, tangible and consuming.

On top of it all, the candles still exuded essence as they burned hot and bright before his field of vision.

#cillian murphy #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy x y/n #cillian murphy fanfiction

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sophiethewitch1 · 3 months

Text

What We Want - Chpt. 4 - Nightmares Too

In Which A Romantic Breaks The Universe

(Yandere!batboys x f!reader) 18+ MDNI!

SUMMARY

Another lonely birthday, another empty year. You miss your family. You're late for your bills and rent, and even then, you got robbed last Tuesday.

Still, you buy yourself a cupcake, because you need it. I mean, hey. What's dessert for if not to get over cheating boyfriends and dead relatives?

As you blow out the candle, watching the clock switch from 11:59 pm to midnight of the next day, you make a wish.

And because the world doesn't like to make much sense, it comes true. Your life is suddenly flipped on a dime, and you're stuck trying to catch up with it. Fantasy becomes reality. You're a Wayne now, apparently. Or you used to be. You're loved, you're rich, you're talented and powerful.

Well, sort of. Careful what you wish for, right?

(TRIGGER WARNINGS AND MASTERLIST HERE)

PREV - NEXT

“You wanna get out from under there?”

What sort of question is that? Of course, you don’t. You’re going to live here now. You’re never leaving this tiny, cramped space till you rot away and die. The stained underside of some IKEA desk was your new home.

Well, since your actual home was seeming less and less like an option. Which kinda sucks, because you’re feeling surprisingly possessive of your stuff. You don’t want fancy dresses or bubbly champagne, you want your ratty couch and the neighbour’s cat that liked to visit in the middle of the night. Your mother was right, you were the type of person to never be happy no matter what. You could appreciate the food, though.

Shaking, trembling, knees clutched to your chest, you look up. Slowly, because you’ll probably piss yourself if you don’t.

Now that you weren’t holding his hand, the vigilante known as Red Hood was much, much scarier. He was sitting on the carpeted floor with you, but he still somehow looked incredibly menacing. You preferred his old look, honestly. The helmet had less ‘grim reaper’ vibes. The hood and metal face mask made him seem like a cyborg assassin, or something equally terrifying. He was terrifying.

Still, you could appreciate the insane sort of hilarity of this situation. The notorious crime fighter and crime committer was sitting here with you, crossed legs, twiddling his thumbs away. You press your face into your hands, laugh, and then scream. The sound is muffled, but he probably still hears the exciting new phase of your breakdown.

“Don’t…” your voice cuts off, you have to think before you can manage to speak again, “Don’t you have something better to be doing?”

His giant shoulders shrug.

“I’ve got time.”

Did he? You don’t know how long you’d been up here, how long you’d been sitting here either. You’d fallen asleep, despite your desperate fight not to, so it could be anywhere between 10 to the next day. Had you missed midnight? God, you hoped not.

That stupid little ritual is what convinces you to leave. Not common sense, not the Hood, not your desperate desire to get home and sleep. No, it’s the image of your mother’s tired smile, the city in the background as you wish her another happy birthday after a long day of work. It’s a memory you’re not willing to give up, even if you technically already made your wish.

You’d lived this awful day twice. You got to blow out your candles twice, too.

Slowly, surely, you climb out from under the desk. Red Hood is quiet, careful. He doesn’t move apart from a subtle shift in his hood, suggesting he’s watching you. He’s acting like you’re a wild animal or something, like he might scare you off, or might prompt you to attack.

If he tries anything, you will. It doesn’t matter that he could snap your neck like a twig. Maybe he’s right to act that way, you’re feeling pretty feral right now. Half giving him your back, you turn the monitor for the computer on. It’s Wayne property, so you think you technically have some right to it. It’s not like you’re going to hack it or anything, you just need it to-

11:48.

“Thank god,” you sigh, relieved. Still, you’re not out of the woods yet. You needed at least a lighter, hopefully, a candle and a desert of some kind too. There were lots of cakes downstairs, if you felt you could do it. Big ‘if’ there. The mental breakdown was still well underway. And not everyone could dodge a punch like Red Hood could. Knowing you, you’d probably get sued for millions if you accidentally snapped at some poor rando.

Let’s start small. You wrench open the office’s drawer and start rooting around. You find lots of things, a Wayne Enterprises-themed stress toy, a kid’s drawing of them and their parent holding hands, and a surprising amount of hand cream, but no lighter. You slam the drawer closed and move to the next one.

“Hey, what are you doing?” his voice rumbles out, and your head snaps around.

You look down. Right. This is probably illegal. You were rooting through someone else’s private property. Of course, it wasn’t the first time you’d done something like this, but it was definitely the first time you’d done it in plain view of a vigilante.

Crap. You hadn’t thought. That was your entire night, summarised.

“Uh, this is… Do you have a lighter?” you ask, wincing. You don’t really like the mask he’s wearing. Apart from being so intimidating, you’re shaking like a wet chihuahua, it’s also impossible to tell what he’s thinking through it. The domino mask, the metal face mask and the voice changer completely hid any emotion. Full coverage and all.

The helmet probably would’ve made that even harder. You’d still prefer it. This guy's creepy.

“You smoke?” he responds, slowly but surely getting to his feet. You back up quickly, pressing yourself to the wall of the cubicle. Red Hood pauses and then moves even slower. He’s careful not to frighten you any more than already.

This was all really strange. One of the strangest things that had ever happened to you. And you might’ve woken up this morning in an alternate dimension. Or something, you had zero clue what was going on. God, you really wished you’d paid more attention in science class. You’d thought Mr Gregory was crazy, but he’d gotten the last laugh.

“I don’t,” you clench your sweaty fists tight, “Maybe I should.”

“Don’t get started, it’s impossible to stop,” Red Hood says, digging into his pocket for something. You freeze, but relax again when he hands you a scuffed metal lighter.

Holding it close to your chest, you whisper a thank you to him. He nods his head in acknowledgement.

This was really weird. You couldn’t say it enough.

“I hate you,” you state because you sort of have to. Even when he’s being nice to you, helping you. It’s an obligation. You have to make sure that despite the show of good faith he was offering, you were certainly feeling no such thing.

“I figured,” he replies, which like- What the fuck? Does this make absolutely zero sense to anybody else? You’re not sure what about your panic-stricken tears and desperate hand-holding made you seem hateful, but you could work with it.

Maybe all the feelings you push down are starting to show. You ignore how worried that makes you because you’ve had enough for today. Today was more than e-fucking-nough.

You were going to find a cake and a candle, and you were going to make your wish. Again, because life sucks. You were going to finish this horrible day again because life sucks. And hopefully, you’d wake up tomorrow… tomorrow, not today.

You weren’t sure if you would. Life sucks, right?

You look the Red Hood in his creepy glowing red eyes and say, “I think I’m losing my fucking mind.”

“That’s not good.”

“No, I don’t think it is.”

There’s quiet between you two for a moment. You think he’s staring at you, trying to figure you out. He knows you hate him, but you’re… well, you’re too tired to be angry right now. You just want to go to sleep. You just want this damn day to end. Tomorrow you’d go back to hating all the vigilantes of Gotham with a fiery passion, but today…

Well, you wouldn’t call it peaceful, whatever this situation is. Maybe it’s understanding. He seems understanding, for some reason. You don’t really want to think about that.

You just wanted to hate him. It was easier that way. Then you didn’t have to hate yourself so much.

“I’m going to go find some cake and a candle. It’s my birthday and I haven’t made a wish.”

Red Hood nods, “I could eat.”

That wasn’t an invitation, but whatever. Guess you’re blowing out your candles for your twenty-first with… this guy. Better than yesterday, which was with nobody but yourself and your trashy TV. Or, well, the first today.

You really think you are losing your mind. Whatever, whatever, let’s worry about it later.

After one of the most awkward and uncomfortable elevator rides of your life, squished into a corner as Red Hood took up the lion’s share of space, you find yourself back on the first floor. It’s chaos. The gorgeously decorated gala is now in rubble, and people are rushing around with the sort of fear you’d expect after the fucking Joker showed up.

He wasn’t here, which was good. It was important to focus on the good.

First responders flit around the space, checking the people who seem worse for wear and the rich bastards who think they’re more important than the service workers who are cut or bruised. All the food tables have been knocked over, the waste of it making you upset. Of course the Joker wastes food, he’s gotta be the evilest man on earth or something. It’s not just the interior that’s been destroyed, either. The giant gothic windows have been shattered inward, and broken glass covers the entire floor space. Red and blue lights flash through the gaping holes, bits of glass still attached to the stone sending it cascading across the walls.

You look down. You’re missing your shoes.

“You can’t walk on that,” Big Red says, which like, duh.

“I know that,” you mutter, looking around for another way. Ah, good, there’s a staff entrance over there, which you think probably leads to the kitchen-

“I could carry you.”

You give him a disturbed look and he shrugs. Pointing to the ‘staff only’ door, you wish you had the strength to tell the guy to fuck off. He feels like a babysitter or something.

“I’m going in there.” ‘Please don’t follow me.’

He follows you, because of course, he does.

Lucky for you, the staff entrance leads straight to the kitchen. Even luckier, there’s absolutely nobody here to witness you lose your mind. There are also lots of dishes waiting to be served, already plated and perfect. This is a professional kitchen, but it was your birthday so you have to assume they’d have had candles or a cake prepared.

You walk through the giant kitchen, and Red Hood hangs back. He leans against the doorway, crossing his tree-tunk-esque arms and glowering. Nowhere can do a scary hero like Gotham can. He was really messing with your vibe, which wasn’t all that great in the first place.

Your eyes rove over the platters, head snapping back when you spot a tiny set of confectionaries at the back. Cupcakes, three in total. They don’t match the rest of the other high-quality foods, but you know they’re the ones you want anyway. You hope this didn’t belong to someone else, and promise to pay them back… somehow. You’d write a note or something, leave your number behind.

You were rich now. You’d have preferred the lottery instead of all this. What’s the saying, ‘beggars can’t be choosers?’ You’d certainly been begging.

It’s a struggle to reach the back of the counter without knocking any of the other food. You grab the plate, lift it up and over, and then set it back down on an empty stretch of countertop.

You look over the three cupcakes, trying to pick one. There’s one that’s a dark raspberry pink. A pink that’s a little too dark, actually. Almost… reddish. You glance over your shoulder at the devil lurking behind you, wince, and decide you’re going for the blue cupcake. You think this might’ve also been one of Sam’s favourite colours. It would’ve been at some point, at least.

Now, candles. This might be the hard part, but it’s the most important one. Again you start rooting through some stranger’s property, and Red Hood just watches silently. It’s weird. This whole situation is weird. You’re tired and confused and you’re half convinced you’re dreaming it all, but… but you’re definitely starting to think this might be real.

And that’s fucking scary. So, back to candle hunting. They had to have some, it was your birthday. Maybe, you were pretty sure. Somehow the worst day of the year had happened twice because God knows you had some shit luck. You’d really like some solid answers, instead of just ‘maybe!’. And for some reason, you really didn’t think you’d be getting them anytime soon.

Ah, shoot. You found your candle. It’s one of those giant ‘Happy Birthday’ cake toppers, all loopy and connected words. Your cupcake is way too small, and your candle is way too big. Well, you’re nothing if not resourceful. When you bend the candle, the wax snaps easily under your grip. You’re left with a capital ‘H’ and under that the ‘B’ and little ‘i’ and ‘r’ from the beginning of birthday. Good enough, you suppose.

You stick the crumbly, glittery monstrosity on top of the stolen cupcake, and swipe the lighter again. The letters sag to the side, and you nudge them back into balance.

You glance down at the ovens, reading the bright neon numbers. 11:57.

You wait, flicking the lighter open and closed. The metallic click, the rhythm of the movement, it settles you a bit.

“Why are you waiting?” Red Hood pipes up, breaking that comfortable silence. At least he doesn’t come any closer, still lingering half in the room, half not.

“It has to be midnight,” you answer, wishing him away. This is your thing. You didn’t want anybody here for it, didn’t want anybody else’s presence tainting this piece of your mother’s memory. You were greedy for it, not eager to share.

You were sharing today. There’s a part of you that wants to scream and rant at the man who for some unknown reason simply will not leave, but you imagine your mother’s frowning face, and you can’t do it. She’s the angel on your shoulder (nagging, nagging, nagging) compared to your usual devil-inclined self. She was always insisting you needed to be a better host, be nicer to people. Maybe make more friends. And after she’d gone, you’d tried, you really, really had.

But Red Hood was an altogether different matter. Everything they were, everything they represented, was an altogether different matter.

You were obsessed with the Waynes. And in a different, more bitter, spiteful, malicious way, you were obsessed with the Bats, too.

You weren’t going to be friends with Red Hood. You hated him, despised him. Mum always said you needed to get better at forgiving people. You disagreed, but just… maybe just for today, you wouldn’t make him leave.

You could glare at him, though. You felt that was fair enough. He ignores your narrowed eyes like a seasoned professional. Bet he’s had a lot of people hate him. Bet he deserves it.

“It’s 11:59,” he tells you, and you stop glaring at him to light the candle.

The light is weak, barely able to touch you. Still, it’s strong enough to get rid of those tiny glimpses of red and blue police lights, to keep away the darkness for just long enough. You sigh into the light, absorbing it into yourself. You’d always thought the world was too dark, and you hated winter when you’d lose the sun. So like you had to hate the dark, you had to love this light. This tiny little candle, burning away.

“What’re you gonna wish for?”

You stare at the flickering flame. It twitches back and forth. Casts light into the kitchen. Mesmerises you. It’s barely alive, and you’re about to put it out before it can even start. It could’ve been some great fire, some city-destroying blaze. And you’re going to kill it. Kill it before it can kill you, can kill everyone here. Kill it before it could have ever hoped to live, to thrive.

Just a baby. Just a little, little baby.

It doesn’t deserve it. That never seems to matter. It never mattered before.

“The Joker to die.”

You exhale, blowing the light out and sending the kitchen into darkness. When you manage to find the light switch and turn it on, the room is empty. It’s just you, your cake, and your tears. Your hands clench, and then you realise you’re still holding it.

You still have the Red Hood’s lighter. He left without it.

Well, finder’s keepers, right?

You’re shaking in the back of the ambulance, the blanket wrapped around your shoulders not enough to keep out the Gotham night’s chill. You don’t really remember how you got here, to be honest. Everything’s pretty goddamn blurry. You were talking to a vigilante, a red one. Not down here, staring up at the Wayne Tower. You remember his face in the shifting candlelight. Did you blow out your candles with him? That was a fucking crazy thought.

And now the Bruce Wayne has a hand on your shoulder. You don’t remember when he arrived. He’s talking with the paramedic, chatting over the top of your head. There words are going in one ear and out the other, it’s alien for as much as you can understand. You want to shake his hand off, you don’t want anyone touching you right now. Especially not a stranger.

Even if it was a guy you had owned a fan Twitter for. Those were the darkest days of your past. Even more so than the time you’d totally thought about jumping in front of the Gotham subway. You’d only not done it because you’d have felt bad for wasting other commuters' time. What were you doing? Ah, right.

In the end, you don’t shove him off, because you don’t know if you can move other than blink. Even that’s against your will. Your eyelashes are fluttering randomly, eyes flicking around the interior of the ambulance. You’re barely conscious. And you doubt you’ll remember any of this later, either. You can feel the memories slipping away, the drain at the back of your mind sucking up the fear and bad thoughts and leaving you blank and empty. Numb, safe, but numb.

The paramedic’s mouth moves. You don’t think she’s talking to you, which is good. You can’t hear her over the ringing in your ears. She does some final checks, and then she’s off to the next person.

The two of you are left to silence, to watch the rest of the world in its chaos. You feel like there’s a barrier, a pane of glass, between you and the other people here. Like your TV screen, really. The paramedic goes to a woman and her son. The woman seems fine, but the son has a long gash on his arm. She’s screaming, he’s crying, and the paramedic is handling it all with calm professionalism. You wanted to start screaming too.

You glance at a man in a suit yelling at another first responder, spittle flying into the air with his rage. You think he’s one of the ones you saw earlier in the ballroom. His suit is still perfect, and he doesn’t have a speck of blood on him. Even his hair is still perfectly brushed and coiled.

You looked like a drowned rat in comparison.

“…Are you alright?” The question breaks the silence, and you slowly turn to look up at Bruce.

Well, that’s the dumbest question you’ve ever heard. You thought Bruce Wayne was supposed to be brilliant. Maybe he’s just feeling bad because of the new trauma he’s gifted you tonight? It wasn’t his fault. As most of your mental health issues stemmed from, it was the Joker’s fault.

“No,” you answer, and he nods stiffly. Great chat.

He huffs out a sound of frustration, lifting the hand on your shoulder. Immediately, some of the tension in you seeps out. You hope he doesn’t notice. You think he probably does.

Someone calls out your name. Your head turns to the crowd. They call out your name again, this time closer, and you call back. You’re sort of surprised when a crying Jeanine pushes out of the throng of people. She’s a mess, her hair out of her pristine bun, her suit missing its jacket, and her glasses cracked. Seems she didn’t have a very nice time either.

You look down. She’s also missing her shoes. It’d be kind of gross, walking around on Gotham’s streets barefoot, if you could manage to give a shit. You’re still restarting, however, and all energy is going towards not crying again. You’re failing. Awfully bad, at that.

Whatever. Gotta try.

Panting, Jeanine places her hands on her knees, “I’m so, so sorry.”

It takes a moment for you to load the words through your Windows XP brain, but when you do, you’re more confused than you were a second ago.

“What? Why are you sorry?” you say, for a second imagining Jeanine as one of the people that attacked you.

“Because you wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t… hadn’t forced you to come…” Jeanine’s voice trails off, a look of horror on her face. Ah, she’s noticed Bruce. Apparently, she’s quite afraid of the man. You feel a sense of camaraderie towards the woman. God knows how many times you’d worn the exact same expression talking to one of your own bosses.

And then, well, then you usually got fired. It’s not looking good for her.

“Mister Wayne! I didn’t see you there, apologies!” she says, straightening her shoulders.

“Jeanine, it’s good to see you. Are you well, have you checked with the paramedics yet?”

“I have, Sir. Thank you for worrying about me,” Jeanine answers, with a healthy dose of hero-worship in her voice. You can’t judge, you’d be staring all starry-eyed at Bruce if you weren’t falling asleep where you sat. Apparently, traumatic experiences make you sleep. Who would’ve thought?

Like you hadn’t experienced this scenario a thousand times before. First time with fucking Bruce Wayne standing right next to you, though.

“Of course, I would. You’re one of my people,” he says, giving her a warm smile. Jeanine physically sags with relief at his words, because it sounds like she’s probably not getting fired tonight.

Bruce gets a notification on his phone, hums, and then slides it back into his pant pocket.

“Jeanine, we’re going back together to the manor tonight,” Bruce continues. Also, you were? Nobody mentioned that to you, and certainly nobody asked you about it. Well, fuck what you want, right? Who cares if you desperately want your cramped apartment in the Narrows, you’re getting shipped off to the fucking Wayne Manor of all places.

You just go along with it. Just go along with it. Wayne Manor probably has lots of nice, plush beds, and you’d kill for a pillow and some ambient rain sounds right now.

Bruce looks off to the side, where Tim is on the phone. They make eye contact, Bruce nods, and then turns back to the two of you.

“I’ll be right back. You two stay here, do not go anywhere,” he commands, king of the castle.

There’s quiet between the two of you. Jeanine squirms under your gaze, obviously guilty. You think back over her words, and then you groan.

“Jeanine. Jeanine, did I not have to go to this fucking party?”

Jeanine is quiet. She’s too fucking quiet.

“Jeanine?” your voice is shaky, and you have to bite the inside of your lip to force yourself not to tear up again. It was getting kind of embarrassing, honestly. You did not cry this much. Usually. This was not a usual day, of course. You’d been Ground Hog Day-ed into another reality… you think.

“No, Ma’am, you didn’t need to go. You’re… you used to be a Wayne, and even if you’ve parted from the name, you still have the power that comes with that. You did not have to come tonight,” she says, sounding remorseful and afraid. And maybe she should be.

If you had as much power as she said, you could probably fire her. You press your hands into your face.

“I thought you said you’d quit if I didn’t go,” you grind out, digging your fingers into your eyes, clawing into your already ruined makeup.

“I was lying, Ma’am. As I always do. I’m sorry,” she apologises. None of this makes any sense, and neither does she. Why would she lie? Why is this normal? What is the new normal, and how are you supposed to hide if you don’t know how to blend in?

You realise that you’re falling into old habits instinctively. That maybe you should say something about all this, or at least that you have some weird form of amnesia. You don’t, though. You’re scared, you’re far too scared.

“Well how- I thought you were serious this time!” you cry out, stuttering over your own lies, flinging your hands from your face. Jeanine winces at you. It’s probably the dried mascara running down your face in black rivulets, making you look like an odd mix between a raccoon and a banshee.

You’d seen your reflection in the ambulance’s side mirror. It had almost been as scary as the Joker’s goons. Almost.

“…Please, please don’t fire me,” she begs, her hands clasped tight in front of her.

You realise you probably should for an admittance like that. This was too complicated, this woman and her non-existent relationship with you was far too complicated. You also realise that whoever ran this stupid body before was very used to Jeanine’s baseless threats, and it wouldn’t be at all fair to her. And she seems quite desperate for this job. Which really doesn’t make much sense, because she seems quite important, and she’s working for you, someone else who seems quite important.

God if you fucking knew. You were quickly discovering you didn’t know shit.

“I won’t, just… just don’t say anything about this to anyone, okay? I’m…” you sigh, uncertain what to do, what to say, “I’m having a hard time.”

“Thank you, thank you so, so, so much. I’ll pay you back, I won’t do it again, I’ll do whatever you ask me to-”

“That’s enough, please. I just… I’d like some quiet,” you cut her off, closing your eyes and shuffling back in the ambulance. You cut yourself off from the rest of the world, hide your head behind your knees, and try to ignore the flashing lights and yelling voices. The ambulance shifts weight slightly as Jeanine sits beside you. She’s not too close to feel uncomfortable, just toeing the line.

Bruce comes back, looking over the two of you. He seems sombre, but you’re not sure why. Is it the entire night? Did something bad happen again? Is it just how miserable the two of you look? You don’t care enough to ask.

You just don’t care.

You tune out of their conversation again, even knowing it might be important. When Jeanine leaves, and Bruce invites you to a black car, you follow silently. He opens the door, and after a moment’s hesitation, you follow him in.

He knocks on the panel separating the two of you from whoever’s driving the car, and like a well-oiled machine, the car pulls out of the traffic and the paparazzi and out onto the street. Must be nice. You bet Jeanine is going to have to walk home.

Ah, wait, you’re one of them now. You’re one of those ‘must be nice’ types. Weird. You kept forgetting, somehow. Even with Gotham’s prince sitting next to you. Weird.

“I want you to stay at the manor for the night,” Bruce says, and you nod, barely listening. You’re barely conscious, far too tired to understand the implications of the words he was saying. If there were any, like you said, you couldn’t tell.

You’re watching the city go by, the light streaming past in a blur of colours. You rest your head in your hand, your elbow on the armrest. Even with you pressing your face to the glass, you can’t see the sky. The buildings stretch too high. And even if you could, it wasn’t like you’d see anything aside from some late-night flights. The Gotham light pollution and the smoke-filled sky would see to that.

Bruce doesn’t say anything else after that. You’re grateful for the quiet.

You squeeze your eyes shut, and maybe in some act of self-harm, try to remember what happened tonight. Try to pick through your thoughts, and understand whatever happened. That man… that horrible man. He disappeared into thin air. Gone, just gone.

And your world had changed. You’d gotten richer, more powerful. And yet, and yet… you knew this feeling. You knew this weakness. You knew what it meant when you looked in the mirror and you saw something barely alive.

You knew what grief looked like.

You want to rip out your own hair and chew off your own skin. It didn’t make any sense, and you felt crazier and crazier by the second. And none of it made sense, and yet, you had the worst feeling. An omen, a dark cloud. Something worse than the Joker, something that made even less sense.

Even in this life, were you alone? That wasn’t fair. That didn’t make any sense. That didn’t make any sense at all.

Your voice is quiet in the car. Her voice is quiet in the car.

“Do you know where my Mum is?” a little girl asks the big, strong man, her tiny body dwarfed by the black leather of the car. She’s out of place, out of time. She doesn’t fit here.

She doesn’t think she ever has.

The big, strong man, the hero, stays silent, his face hidden by the darkness. The little girl sobs, cries, wails. She wants her mum back. She wants her family back. And now, she wants her life back.

All have been stolen from her.

Maybe she was dreaming. Maybe she was dead. Maybe you were dreaming. Maybe you were dead. Maybe this was another world, and both you and her now have to navigate another lonely place. At least you’d do it together, hand in hand.

It didn’t matter. You knew where you needed to be.

“I want to see it.”

You need to see it. You grasp desperately at Bruce’s arm, nails digging into his expensive and ruined suit. Begging him, pleading him.

He says something. You think it’s a ‘what?’

“I want to see their graves. I want to see my mother’s grave.”

Bruce’s face darkens, and you’re too tired, too exhausted to tell what emotion flits across it. You wonder if it’s the same desperation you feel. But it confirms it. They’re dead. They’re still dead. Despite everything, despite the entire world changing for you, the most important part had been forgotten.

They were still dead. And you were still here. Alone.

“Tomorrow. Tomorrow, but for tonight, you need to rest,” he promises you, and your hand releases. You watch your palm hang limply in your lap, and for a second, it doesn’t seem like your hand. Bruce starts speaking again, this apologetic, pitying tone. You can’t stand it. You can’t stand it one bit.

And in the rudest, most cowardly thing you’ve ever done, you cover your ears like a child.

The rest of the car ride passes in a blur of colour and sound. You’re in Gotham, driving away from the Tower, you’re at the edges of town, passing over one of the bridges, you’re driving through New Jersey’s countryside, passing green fields and old buildings. You go by the iron-wrought gates of Wayne Manor, up the alley’s winding entryway, and finally, the car rolls to a stop in front of the stairs.

To Mr. Wayne’s credit, he doesn’t open the fucking door for you again. You get to stumble your way out on your own two stubborn legs, swaying drunkenly, sickly. He waits for you at the stairs, and you ignore the arm he offers you. He’s just as blindingly irritating as his son.

Didn’t you like these people? You would again in the morning, you just needed your hate. It was the only thing keeping you going at this point. Pure rage was fueling you as you climbed those steps. You’re panting, but you don’t really know why. They’re not that tall.

You feel weak. You feel so, so weak. And you hate it. You’d worked so hard to be free of it, even when you longed for it like a toxic ex-lover, you’d pushed it away. And now it had it’s fangs wrapped around you again, and again, you’d have to climb out of hell.

Today, it was more literal. Tomorrow? God fucking knows. People were literally vanishing from thin air, Pete’s sake. You’ll try, of course. But god fucking knows.

A butler opens the door, and Bruce enters. Once you follow in, the butler closes the door behind him. This time, you really do try to hear what they say. It’s impossible. You concentrate, but all you get for your hard work is a headache. Tomorrow, you’ll try again tomorrow.

The butler rushes off, something important and butler-y to be done. You really didn’t know what butlers did. You couldn’t imagine what their jobs were other than cleaning and cooking. Accounting? Did butlers do accounting?

“I need to handle some things. Will you be able to find your old room alright?” Bruce asks, interrupting your increasingly inane thoughts.

You blink, at him stupidly. Because you were stupid. You had a brand to keep.

“Yes,” you lie. You don’t really know why you do. Some odd mix of self-protective instincts, exhaustion-induced delirium, and also a deep desire to be alone. You really, really wanted to be fucking alone.

“Goodnight then,” Bruce says, he pauses like he’s going to say something else, but he doesn’t. He’s done that twice now, you think. Maybe he just doesn’t think you’re worth the effort. He’d be right.

You watch his back as he strides off into the darkness of the manor, leaving you shivering in the empty foyer. Your expensive ballgown is tattered, grimy, and worst of all, bloody. You want to get out of it. And then you want to sleep.

The click of his dress shoes fades, and you’re left wondering what the fuck you’re going to do next. Could you just start storming into random empty rooms? Where would you find any clothes? You were not going to sleep in this dress, no way.

So, you start up the grand staircase and start storming into random empty rooms. You find studies, bathrooms, and bedrooms. None that seem like anyone lives in them, of course. They feel like fancy hotel stays, the type you see online and sigh about.

The house, no, the manor, is quiet. Empty. It feels haunted, honestly. It probably was, a building this old and important. And it wasn’t like you didn’t know about Martha and Thomas Wayne. You didn’t think any Gotham native didn’t know about them, about the tragedy that had struck them.

It made Bruce seem like someone real, someone like you. Because if even the billionaires could get shot in alleys in Gotham City, it made more sense when the poor folks died. Like you were all human like God didn’t play favourites.

But, let’s be honest, you’d prefer to be an orphan in a mansion than the Narrows. Bruce Wayne had time to heal after what happened to him, for you it was from the frying pan to the fire.

The orphanage you’d been in for two years before you’d turned eighteen and been kicked out had had a very strict hierarchy. Probably still did, you never went back to check. It was technically a foster home, but the ancient sign beside the front door spoke differently. ‘Gotham Orphanage - Founded by Alan Wayne 1878’, the mark of the Waynes even found there. You used to touch the sign every time you went past it like it was some odd good luck charm. You still owe that sign your first successful job interview. Like you didn’t touch the copper plate every damn day, including every day you’d failed another interview.

And, well, it was Gotham. It wasn’t a good place. It had long been cemented in your mind that those theories that Gotham was cursed were true. That there wasn’t any other explanation.

You pause in your musings when you find a room that actually looks like it might be lived in. A long time ago, you think, from the dust covering the shelves. When you check the closet, you find men’s clothes, also untouched. You hope whoever lives here doesn’t care if you steal their shit, because you certainly don’t. Oh wow, this bathroom is gorgeous. The tub is gigantic, easily able to fit a group of at least six, maybe more. Still, you want to go to sleep more than you want a nice soak, so you go for a quick shower where you get rid of all… all the blood.

You watch the red run down the drain and are brought back to much simpler times.

Even as one of the older kids, you were still new blood. You hadn’t made any friends when you tried to defend the younger, weaker kids, either. The foster ‘parents’ who didn’t let you call them anything other than Mrs and Mr Hemming didn’t care about any abuse that happened under the house, as long as it wasn’t visible. You’d done this ritual before, but it actually had been your blood. It hadn’t hurt as much as this did, for some unknowable reason.

You weren’t a fighter. The very few punches you did take, you never hit back. Not like you had tonight. You’d been terrified the Hemmings would kick you out, stop feeding you. Still, you never moved, either. Never let the others take their anger out on the younger kids. You couldn’t do it. And now, looking back on it, your fear of the Hemmings retaliating was stupid. They’d needed the funds the foster caring gave them, and they were always trying to take in more and more kids.

They were empty threats. You were a terrified child. The what-ifs didn’t really matter anymore.

And maybe you were a bleeding heart type, like the other kids had said. Maybe you were gullible, naive, and a pushover. Like you hadn’t been through all the bullshit everyone else had. Like you being nice and hopeful and all those things that got you picked on weren’t all deliberate choices. One day, all the anger and rage you had would bubble over. It would destroy you and your life in a catastrophe, not unlike the one that took your family.

You’d already pushed it down so many times. Waking up today, in a different, unfamiliar world, had probably just made it worse. As always, you ignore it. It’s not worth worrying about.

Getting out of the shower, you do a very lazy towel off and then grab that mystery man’s clothes. They’re mostly dress suits, but you find a few old T-shirts. It hangs off you like a curtain, but it’s warm and it smells nice. Minty and earthy and… oddly free. Bouncy, alive, but still calming and relaxing. It’s a nice counter to the corpse vibes you’re rocking right now, which is decidedly un-alive and un-calm.

You wonder what it would’ve been like to mourn in safety. Where you didn’t have to worry if someone would steal your portion of food or the few funds you could hide in the garden. Where the glares of others didn’t constantly dig into your skin, reminding you that you weren’t wanted there. That you never would be.

That was alright. The place had stunk of mould and rat shit anyway. And maybe you had in this life. It didn't look like you were doing much better, anyway. No, this version of you somehow looked worse. You didn't know how it was possible, and then you remind yourself that none of this is possible, and you really ought to let go of that word.

Still, you lived in Gotham. You would always live in Gotham. You couldn’t leave, it was your home. It was a part of you, like every other sorry idiot who still lived here. School shootings, bomb threats, the city’s regular ol’ disasters. Even if you had been put in a good foster home, even if you had lived... here, you doubted your life would’ve been that much better. Of course, you were still bitter about it. Couldn’t the world just take a little bit off your plate? Maybe it was now, maybe this was the universe's way of saying sorry. A fancy, but empty house, with a still dead family. Maybe you were a little too greedy, a little too jealous.

You slide the duvet covers to the side, untucking them just like you do whenever you do stay in a crappy motel. When all the sides are thoroughly untucked, you slide underneath the covers. When your face lands on the pillow, you sigh in relief. Despite all the bullshit you’d suffered tonight, you had silk pillows, and this phone had youtube premium, so you could listen to rain sounds on it.

Safe. Sort of. Happy. Sort of. Alive. Sort of.

You told yourself it could be worse. And it could’ve been, so you kept on. Today, even after the night you’d had, you tell yourself it could be worse, again. At least the goon didn’t capture you, at least you didn’t actually see the Joker, at least you had a safe bed for the night, at least…

At least the Batman didn’t rescue you. You know it’s silly, but you can’t help but think it.

You hated him almost as much as the Joker, which was saying something since you regularly daydreamed about ripping that man limb from limb. Because the Bat refused to do anything about the supervillain, to finally put the mad dog down, you would always hate him. There wasn’t any other option. You sort of hated his entire entourage. Even Red Hood a bit, since even if they constantly fought, it was obvious both of them held back when dealing with each other. Still, you hated Red Hood and Robin a little less, after tonight. You kind of owed it to them.

You didn’t want to. You wanted to hate them and keep hating them till you died. It was one of your little things, the little things you couldn’t let go of. The little things that hinted at your less-than-perfect sanity. You felt that if you ever forgot what they’d done, what they kept doing every day, that you’d be disrespecting your family, forgetting some part of them. Some part of their memory, which you greedily hoarded away. Not a single precious recollection was to be lost, not ever.

You weren’t allowed to move on. Weren’t supposed to. Sometimes the many little rules you’d made for yourself felt like they were going to eat you alive. A swarm devouring its master. Swallowing you down bit by bit. Up and up, eating all the parts of you pushed down.

You wrap the blanket tighter around you, closing your eyes tight. Like if you tuck your feet inside the duvet, the monsters can’t get you. Your monsters can’t get you. Sometimes it felt like they were already feasting, and you just refused to feel it.

But only sometimes, right?

MASTERLIST - NEXT

#Series:WWW #yandere batfam #yandere dc #yandere batfamily #yandere x reader #dick grayson x reader #nightwing x reader #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #tim drake x reader #red robin x reader #damian wayne x reader #robin x reader

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readychilledwine · 5 months

Note

Hi Liz! I have been following you for a while now and I absolutely adore everything you write. You are incredibly talented and deserve all praise for it ❤️

I have never actually requested a story from any author simply because I will devour almost any content by fanfic authors and truthfully it makes me feel a little greedy and I never want anyone to feel forced to write anything. However, I have had this idea since I read one of your stories and I feel like no one else would be able to do it justice like you would.

Essentially, the reader is the youngest Archeron sister and is mated to Azriel (mating bond has been accepted and they have been together for a couple of months now) but she is inexperienced (her first time was with Azriel) and Nesta has been giving her some of her hard core smutty books and now the reader wants to explore some kinks with Azriel (somnophilia, cock warming, wing play, bondage) but she’s embarrassed to bring up the conversation with him. Anyway, she eventually has that conversation with Azriel (he’s all too happy about it because no one can tell me this male doesn’t have a corruption kink) and smut ensues.

First of all, thank you for the endless compliments 💜💜 I'm so excited you're here and have welcomed me into your world for entertainment purposes.

Second of all, I could NEVER deny an Azriel corruption kink fic.

Breathe

Summary - A year of sexual exploration hasn't even began to touch the things Azriel would like to do to you.

Warnings - throat fucking, breath play, references to knife play, auralism, jealous Rhys and cassian at the end, mentions of other explored kinks and sexual senerios

Azriel pushed his fingers further unto your throat, his shadows forcing your hair back as he held your book in his free hand.

“I've been wondering why you've been sending me wave after wave of arousal all day,” he rose a brow a passage involving the male character using a knife to pleasure the female main. “Is this what my pretty little mate reads when I'm away? Her big sister's smut novels?”

He watched as you gagged, drool and spit coming to the corner of your mouth as you struggled to breathe and looked up at him doe eyed. “Want me to fuck you with Truth Teller, mate? Does the thought of coming on a deadly weapon soak your little lace panties?” He chuckled darkly. Mocking your inability to answer.

“You're trained better than this, slut. You know to answer me when I ask you a question.” You whined around his fingers. You could feel the tension in his body, feel his need for stress relief.

The two of you had just began exploring physically together. The bond finally snapped after your 20th birthday. After the Mortal queen and the deathless God had been dealt with. After Elain finally let her claws out of him long enough for him to notice you. To feel you.

He had not pushed sex, knowing from Nesta you were the only one of the 4 of you to hold onto that seemingly special thing so tightly. It had taken a year for you to spread those pretty thighs and let him take you, but after that, you fucked like rabbits. Trying every dirty thing and kink your mind wanted to explore.

Azriel had allowed you to dominate him, whining as you rode his cock and denied him orgasm after orgasm, fingers dancing his scarred wings.

He had tied you from the ceiling his dungeon, harnessed up like a swing and fucked you to sweet oblivion.

He had taken every tight hole, came anywhere he could. Marked you in his scent and musk more times than you two could count.

But you were still his sweet innocent girl.

His little untouched angel exploring your sexuality and urges like an animal in heat sometimes. Your recent needs were punishment. You liked him hurting you, dominating you, watching as you cried. You liked breath play lately, hence his fingers sinking deeper as you struggled, black beginning to form in your eyes until he took those fingers out and slapped you.

“Need you to suck my cock, princess,” he began unlacing his leathers, mind lost in the pleasure your mouth would bring him. “Open. Now.”

You obeyed, throat relaxing and mouth opening as his cock sprung free. Hard leaking and angry from weeks away from you. He pushed in without hesitation, setting a gentle pace as he tightened his grip in your hair.

“She couldn't breathe,” his deep voice began reading from the book, making you whine around his cock as he pushed it down your throat ensuring you couldn't either. “The feeling of the cold hilt in her warm walls causing her to feel wave after wave of shock and pleasure.”

He looked down at you, smirking at the sight of your flushed cheeks, at you swallowing around him as spit pooled the corners of your mouth. His eyes went back to the book. “There was something about the danger, the thrill of this deadly weapon being used to push her to the edge that had her crying out, begging and pleading for more and more as she met every thrust with her hips. Fucking herself harder and harder on her mate's weapon.”

You were aching, dripping for him, and tapped his thigh for a quick breath, watching as he pulled out and looked down at you unimpressed. You panted a few gulps of air before taking him back in your mouth and bobbing your head, hallowing your cheeks and licking each vein on his shift.

Azriel groaned loudly above you, setting the book down before his now free hand joined the other one tangled in your now messy hair. He began fucking your throat harshly. Barely allowing you moments of air as he chased his much needed high.

You could do nothing but hold on for life when he did this. When he lost control for you. He pushed all the way in, gagging you again and held you there, nose pressed against his skin. “Breathe,” he commanded in a moan. “Being such a good girl, y/n.”

Throat fucking as new to you. An unexplored territory you hadn't even considered until he had asked gently. You knew it was more for him than for you, but right now you felt this sense of power as he moaned above you, wings shuttering as his body shivered.

That power reached a deep set need in your bones, allowing you to relax and enjoy this more with a small moan. “There we go, angel,” he whispered. “Just like that for me. I'm so proud of you.” He began thrusting again, allowing you to hear his pleasure, allowing you to feel that power you had over him. “Keep breathing, baby,” his voice was almost a whimper. “Just keep breathing, I'm right there, y/n. Please honey.”

Him begging had you moaning against him, relaxing your throat further as your watched his breathing pick up, his plump lips part, his eyes scrunch.

Without warning he pushed all the way in, spilling down your throat, as a roar tore through his own. He pulled back slightly, releasing the last of his cum onto your stuck out tongue with a satisfied smile.

He kneeled down to you, shadows bringing him a notebook and pen and he wiped the small bits that hit your face off with his thumb before forcing you to suck that digit.

He flipped through the notebook, a page dedicated to each sexual act and kink you two had explored with a rating and comments from both of you before landing on the page he needed and the adjoining blank one.

“1 through 5?” He asked you gently, removing his thumb and kissing your forehead.

“3.5,” you admitted with guilt. “I only enjoyed it because you do, and it made me feel slightly in control.”

He nodded, writing your response as you two both moved to sit cross-legged from each other on the floor. “Do not feel guilty. I am just happy it ranked high enough to be in the rotation. How about the reading to you thing?”

“4 out of 5. I enjoyed it a lot when you were doing that.” Azriel jotted it down.

“And what the fuck is going on in this novel? Do you want to try knife play?”

“Only with you,” you answered.

Azriel leaned forward, kissing you gently. “It's one of my favorites. I've done it with a couple play partners. I can answer any questions you have.”

The two of you sat there, filling in a few more pages of the book you had started to keep during the beginning of your exploration a year ago, smiling at the things you've already done, going on your list of retries.

Love was free flowing down the bond, soaking the room and fabric in it's scent, filling the Riverhouse with its presence with every passing moment.

Rhys and Cassian sighed from downstairs, tapping their feet on the wooden floors as they waited for Azriel to come give them his mission report.

“This happens every fucking time,” Cassian sat down on the couch. “Is it us? Is fatherhood killing our sex drive?”

Rhys shrugged. “I don't know what's killing your sex drive, brother. Mine is fine. Hince 3 little ones. If you could figure out what's keeping theirs so... passionate, though, I'd appreciate it.”

#acotar #acotar x reader #azriel acotar #azriel #azriel x reader #azriel x y/n #azriel x you #azriel x archeron!reader

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comfortless · 3 months

Note

hi angel! i have to tell you that ‘All That You Don’t Want’ was incredible- such a lovely, sweet tale! i keep revisiting it! would you consider writing a second part? or even a role reversal?

Roach Head

lich! König x fem necromancer! reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. abduction, injury, mentions of insects (reader is the world’s worst necromancer), forced proximity, pining, violence/regicide, major character death, questionable morality, fluff, smut, a lil angst.

notes: i am so sorry you have had to wait so long, anon. ): though… i doubt that i will ever write a continuation of ATYDW, take this sickly sweet… (almost) role reversal, instead!

wc: 6.7k.

It’s an odd thing that, after finally having the blindfold removed, the first thing you notice are the cobblestones beneath your bleeding palms. Not a single one is in disarray; not cracked or crumbling from being used as any other common footpath. No, each stone is in it’s place, lain complete with not a single splintering crack or a sharpness to it from being broken. All pristine and smooth beneath your stinging scrapes.

Just like the cobbles, the air feels untouched here. There’s no stink of manure or spoiled food from the cramped streets of the inner kingdom. There are no roars of fighting men nor the baying of beasts, a lack of giggling women batting their eyelashes to lure those with jingling pouches of coins into brothels. You can’t even detect a breeze. Twisting onto your side, your eyes catch on the extending limbs of sturdy trees, and oddly… not a single leaf flutters or moves. The air is still.

There is only the absence of everything.

You should think it a blessing after your abduction, after being thrust into the back of a dusty carriage drawn by two massive horses.

You could almost swear you had seen the devil in their dark eyes, hellfire deep in those dark pits and you had known assuredly they would be chauffeuring you straight into the darkest circle of Hell. That was, until a thick, rigid cloth was tied around your head, forcing you into complete darkness. Your assailants had done well to bind you and leave your aching body only capable of wracking with sobs against the hard wood at the bottom. Every jolt of the wagon had caused you to flinch, to scramble as best you could, resulting in an array of bruises and your still bleeding hands from fighting at the ropes.

There had never even been a chance to fight back; you never even saw them. Even now as you raise your throbbing head to glance about, there’s no sign of the men that have left you here, in this silent place. Your heart almost seizes in your chest when you realize you can no longer even hear the cantering and whinnying of those dark, stoic horses.

You know that nothing good comes from silence.

It’s one of the first things that you came to learn as a fledgling witch. Quiet rarely ever bodes well. The prey animals in the wood all scurry to hide amongst fallen leaves and well-packed nests the very moment that a predator draws near, and you, still green with your admittedly lackluster talent in reanimating were little more than a fawn in the eyes of any beast.

A groan leaves your parted lips as you force yourself to your knees, ignoring the incessant sting of bruises and how your vision blots from even the barest of exertion. Your binds must have been cut free when you were abandoned here, you realize, as you twist around to crawl.

That’s when you see it— the glory of what lies before you.

Rather than being dumped into some desolate street for the vultures to find and pick apart like any common carrion, the men with their frightening steeds had left you at the steps leading up to a beautiful castle of sorts. The stone bricks and marbled towers above you, spirals of darkened blue shingles descended into gilded turrets, the rampart casting a shadow over all that settles beneath. There’s a flag there, too, positioned just outside of the wooden door leading into the heart of it all. The rich, blue fabric is torn in places, the tassels frayed, bare white thread visible near the paling center making the crest practically invisible.

Something draws you to it, that singular rotting thing in this bright, sterile void. Your feet move quicker than your thoughts as you pad up toward the flag, eyelids squinting as your palm dances over the canvas. The strangest thing happens as you finally make out what remains of a wolf’s head amongst the rips and splintering threads— the wooden door begins to move. It’s not one of those fancy, well crafted ones with those mechanisms you couldn’t fathom in the King’s keep, this one has to be pulled open from the inside.

You watch, lips pursed as the door continues to slowly creek open until finally, you can make out the small courtyard beyond it. A fountain, long since dried up sits at its center, and even with what you imagine must be little care in such a desolate place, the plants are all in bloom; petals of vivid blues and gentle purples fill your vision.

Amongst them, stands a shadow of the purest black, from the opaque veil shrouding his head to the soles of his boots. The cloak he wears is heavy, finely stitched with that very same blue crest embroidered into its chest, the stitching in equal disarray as the flag adorning the stone wall.

You’ve seen specters before. They haunt the kingdom in every nook, crawling over the tops of buildings, invading your dreams with threats of what will come to you if you don’t reanimate something, give them any body to inhabit and puppet so that they might just have a taste of the pleasures of being human once more. Greedy, malevolent things that make you feel ill from a mere glimpse.

This one is entirely an unknown.

He does not crawl from your gaze with the gait of a wary spider, he stands rigid, daring even as those eyes like sapphire lock onto your form. Not a word is uttered between the two of you, yet you feel a pull, one that curls at the bones tucked into the flesh of your legs, pushing and pulling you past the threshold as though an unseen dog were nipping at your heels. You don’t fight it. Your bare feet cross over smooth stone and your stare remains wistful on the figure until he simply strolls away.

That’s it. That’s all it takes before you’re snapped out of your trance and the wooden door swings heavy and violent behind you, closing and locking without a hand to guide it. Then it’s back to the nothingness, the silence.

You should be very, very afraid. In a panic, even as your hands flatten over the wood and you realize that there are no handles from inside at all. You are entirely trapped here, short of finding a way to carve through it or climb up the rampart and risk snapping every limb on your descent. Thing is— you are not afraid, at least not enough to do anything so rash.

A calm settles here, electric and tickling as it feathers unseen through the cool air.

You stay in that courtyard for a long time, admiring every flower and shrub, some you recognize and others you do not. The empty fountain is not empty at all; you find that the marble ring is filled to the brim with riches— gold coins, shimmering stones, all twinkling beneath the yellow glow of the sun overhead.

Inside of the castle is more or less the same, each corridor bathed in the glow of soft candlelight, highlighting paintings in gilded frames that must have taken months to complete, treasures you have only ever heard of seated on polished wood and fine metals. Like walking through a dream. Though your hands itch to pocket something, anything to take back with you when you find the will to escape, to free yourself from the reality of your little shack at the corner of the market that you share with a dozen other witchlings, you don’t touch anything at all.

Following a branch to your right, vast and equally laden with treasures, eyes darting from one shiny thing to the next until the tightly woven, ornate rugs beneath the soles of your feet wind to an end and you instead find your footing on smooth stone tiles.

You find yourself in the throne room, where the specter sits, lofty yet misplaced upon the soft, rolling velvet. That pull, like a lead drawn too tight, pivots you forward, one foot before the other until you’re kneeling at his feet. The figure remains still, watching you with that somber, unrelenting stare even as you reach up to take his gloved hand into your own, kissing along each knuckle until the hand coated in blackened leather moves to cup your face.

This is no king, you know it in your very bones. The dark veil stained by teardrops tells you everything, of a life trodden by deceit and pain untold.

“I know what you are, hündchen.”

The voice startles you, a rasp, alive only in the way that fire lives, crackling and swaying with each lilt. You must have flinched back, the spell weaved around you broken with all of the subtlety of a lightening strike, your elbows dig almost painfully into the rough tiles below, eyes locked to the veil.

Your own voice doesn’t come for a time. When it does, it comes tight; meek and quivering, almost absent entirely as though your own body refuses to bring a ripple to the quiet that has engulfed you.

“Why have you brought me here?”

The feeling that curls up in the hollow spaces within your chest when this enigma pulls you to your feet with a sudden curl of his hand over your wrist feels familiar. It’s not unlike how you felt when accidentally resurrecting that old mantis found dried beneath your bed. It had attempted to chew through your hand, but being so small it hardly seemed a threat, just offensively waving it’s front legs at you until you scooped the critter up and locked it up tight in an old trunk. Some strange tide of wonder, and it takes a moment for you to push it down enough to realize that… the specter is still stood before you, his grip still tight, not saying a word.

Why it brings a swell of warmth to your face should have you questioning your taste in men rather than what he may or may not have done.

“Sorry, I just—“

“You are hurt, hündchen.” He interrupts, turning your wrist over to inspect the flecks of dried blood littering your palm. It’s not the worst injury you’ve ever had, in fact, you had very nearly forgotten it even existed— just a few scrapes from a rope tied far too tight.

You shake your head, biting back that surge of… something, that furry something that crawls from the fluttering organ behind your ribcage and down into the pits of your stomach. That feeling is also familiar, you felt it the first time you laid eyes on that pompous, boy-man serving as heir to the throne in the castle, at least, until he turned his head to look at you and your ilk with thinly veiled disgust.

If the specter sees scum before him, the veil does well to conceal it.

His eyes seem to only light up the more he appraised you, rubbing his thumb over your scrape with such a gentle touch that a shiver rips down your spine.

“I see…”

He guides your wrist back down to your side, delicately trails his fingertips up to your shoulder and… that’s it before he draws away and steps right past you. That’s all the touch you’re given and you find yourself, humiliatingly yearning for it. There should be nothing but contempt scraping at your skull and yet you feel treacherously endeared by this strange, strange faceless man living in this lonely castle.

The risk of this being some bewildering trap weighs heavy on your mind; you’re far more intelligent than some scrappy undead insect, begging to be tossed into a dusty crate, after all. You had heard of the way other lands treated necromancers: shunning them, chasing them from villages, and in far more dreadful cases— leading them to kneel before a headsman for decapitation.

You center yourself, force your mind to conjure up any evidence of some magical foul play only to be left with the knowledge that these feelings are entirely your own.

This man does not have the sticky aura of one dripping magic from his palms like thick globs of honey. He seems almost vacant, devoid of even anything making him human, while you stand transfixed and lacking even the sensible reaction of fear.

You can only find comfort in his gentle hand, in his stare like an unholy flame.

So, when he guides you to what is to be your dwelling you mouth does not part to argue. You’re led to a room larger than the entirety of the cluttered home you shared with the other witchlings. Everything within is worth more than even you, and something about it stings, sharp and sudden like ant’s venom seeping into skin.

From the canopy bed, draped over with thick velvet curtains to protect from the chill of a winter’s night to the neatly polished wood of varying furniture, it all feels so rich— so foreign.

“You didn’t have to prepare all of this for me… I don’t even… why am I here?” You’re rambling, searching every corner of the room with a flitting gaze as if some small patch of dust will provide you with the answers.

Your specter only laughs as he nudges you towards the bed, now your bed, the motion only sending another question to the forefront of your mind.

Were you bought? Meant to warm some peculiar stranger’s bed without even the grace of having the knowledge to prepare?

Perhaps your concerns should have drifted as to why you were not entirely opposed.

“Sleep.”

The simple command leaves you stifled entirely, all confusion and tentative excitement dispelled in an instant.

He wants nothing from you, only to extend a foreign cup spilling over with generosity to one who would not admit it was ever even needed.

You find yourself nodding your head, unaccustomed to the kindness of a forgotten thing like him. In truth, you’re unused to anything but bickering between the other ladies in the witch’s house, the cobwebs stretching without end caking the ceiling, the scuttle of crawling legs over your flesh as you pulled your threadbare blanket over your body to shield you from the cold. From stark poverty to this… it claws at your eyes, steels your mind— man or ghost, it mattered not; your heart sang while your mouth remains pressed into a stiff line.

When he leaves you, your body cloaked in the softest gown you’ve ever worn, burrowed beneath sheets of the finest silk, that unknown thing in your heart seems to spill over, rushing through your veins like honeyed wine.

You dream through the eyes of someone else that night.

A woman kneels at your feet with tears in her dark eyes. She hasn’t slept, the thick, dark patches just above where her cheeks rise make it evident, and she’s pleading with the you who is not you; this woman tells you that she wishes to go home, that she could never be a part of what you are or are not.

Even in dreaming you feel your jaw tighten, sure that your nails have splintered from the shooting pain in your fingertips as your hands tighten over the hard wood of your seat. The not you speaks for you, his voice coming warbled and distant. You can not make out the words, but seeing how this pleading woman’s face seems to morph into an expression of terror, you’re grateful to not know what’s been said.

Nothing becomes of her. You watch as she strolls away, unharmed. This other you, however, is. It’s the tingling of so many unseen legs parading through your chest; spiders in a downward course to burrow in the shadow of your belly. The discomfort rings out as you feel this body rise from its seat, out to the courtyard with a fountain. The flowing water subsided the clambering of spider limbs inside, just enough for this body to pull a ring from its pocket and cast it down into the clear water.

You watch the ring seat itself at the marble bottom, the gentle flow of water causing small ripples to crest over that tiny band of silver until you wake.

Confusion twists itself into curiosity as you free yourself from the sheets, padding out of your room still only adorned in the thin, white fabric of the gown. Morning light filtering through each window of the castle carves a path where the candles have long since been blown out. The only darkness here is with your captor, all tall and shadowy, and you find yourself considering the fact that perhaps you’ve been sucked down into some strange afterlife, one where you and this specter would remain in a silent stasis for all time. You find that you don’t entirely hate the idea, either.

Most of the rooms in the castle are dull. It’s not that there isn’t plenty to look at, but a cluttering of what’s expected, all gold and ornate, only proves to bore you. There is little mystery to be found in riches.

None of it is of importance, anyway. It’s him you’re seeking out, and oddly enough, you find your specter in the courtyard staring down at the cluttered fountain. He shifts in place as you take to his side, fingers curling into loose fists momentarily before he offers you a small greeting by way of running a hand along the back of your neck, petting you as though you truly were only a puppy.

You shiver beneath that warm touch, seem to melt against him before collecting yourself enough to straighten up.

“I did not sleep well,” he says quietly, the look in his eyes tells you that he dreamt through your own. He had seen the decay and filth of the king’s city, perhaps even those angry, little things that you brought back to bite and sting and pinch.

“I didn’t either.”

You recognize that faint, strange smell when you move just a step closer to him, like dust and forgotten things. Not quite rot, but similar, a comfort for you as it’s all your fate has ever allowed for you to know. Yet, this is not one of your reanimations. Only a man.

A man, only, like you; touched by the rot.

The realization crosses your face by way of a widened glance, a sharp intake of breath. It stings again when he turns away from you, drops his hand back to his side.

“Will you walk with me, hündchen?”

“Sure.”

It’s no less strange pacing along at his side than roaming about the castle with no idea where he is. The specter still feels worlds away, even as your arm brushes over his, your fingers occasionally ghosting over his gloved hand. While the vivid blue of globe thistles and hydrangeas entertains your vision, that patient stare of his remains trained on you, even as the quiet settles over the garden once again.

In a way, you feel as though you’re being courted, even as the questions remain scurried and fluttering in your mind. The ghost, the man, whoever he is, refuses to sate that curiosity of yours even as you bring it up to him again. Why? He only responds in an almost boyish laugh that pulls at your heart, infuriating and delightful all the same.

You share a meal, something you’ve no idea how he managed to scrounge together or had the time to prepare at all. He’s been at your side all morning, yet the fruit pastries and tea are served warm as you seat yourself across from him at some grand, oak table. That sparked tingle of magic does not feather off of him as it does with your sisters, but you know without a doubt that he must have it. You glower at him a bit, lips pursed and brow pinched as he sips at his tea, not beneath but through the fabric of his black veil.

“You will have to explain what’s going on at some point,” you huff, pushing your plate away as if to make a show of it. No more accepting his gifts, even if your stomach growls in protest. “Especially if you’re trying to court me.”

It’s cute how wide his eyes go at that, his cup of tea nearly slipping from his hand. The surprise wears off almost immediately, his eyes narrowing in what you imagine must be amusement as you’re left feeling a bit humiliated. Your gaze flits over to the candles adorning the table as you nervously drum your fingers against the lap of your dress.

“Court you?”

“The gown, the walk, the food… is that not what this is?”

“Nein, hündchen…” He pauses to sigh, setting the cup against the table with a dull thud. “It’s better that I did not.”

You think to question him further, but hold back the words bubbling in your throat, sullenly picking at the food on your plate instead. It feels like courtship, would look like courtship to anyone else, but then again… you’ve never quite experienced it for yourself, either. You’re no noble lady, and it feels a bit silly to imagine yourself roaming a place like this with him as your suitor. For all you know, he could be some king from a neighboring kingdom, only offering you respite out of pity after falling from that wagon.

More likely, all of this is just some strange dreaming.

When your lunch is thoroughly picked apart on your plate, the cup emptied, you shift out of your seat and offer him a curt little bow of your head and move towards the door.

— — —

Your days are filled with him— the drab specter you’ve taken to calling König, King, simple and befitting a name as you can give to one without one. No one else lives here, at least that you can see. Not even the rats or scuttling insects you were used to dare to take up residence within this castle. Yet, you remain taken care of and well-fed. You walk at his side every morning and part ways after minimal conversation in the evening. It’s so simple yet odd it almost makes you feel uneasy.

The dreams remain through the eyes of another. Some are combat, and you don’t care for those, looking down to see blood on steel and settling with the odd sense of guilt that you’ve killed someone, even when the you who is not you does not seem to pause. In fact, he often laughs in those dreams, drinks his wine from a golden goblet while he polishes the thick mace in his lap, trousers stained with blood that is not his own.

Others are dreadfully dull. You watch as knights with long swords and silver plates circle around you, your muffled voice shouting demands of what you can only imagine must be tactics and plans for a war you would only ever be apart of in the late hour with your eyes closed.

Your unease nearly doubles on the fourth night, when you wake with a start, pulled from a dream where you see that same woman from the first wailing over a bloodied corpse to find König looming over where you rest. The curtains of your bed parted with what little moonlight filtering inside bathing him in an unearthly, bluish glow. As usual, he doesn’t breathe a word, only stares as you slowly peel back your sheet to sit up and face him fully.

“Is something wrong?,” you ask in a whisper, rubbing your palms against your eyes as you force yourself to pull through the haze of sleep.

“Du bist schön wenn du schläfst,” he hums. “Even having a nightmare.”

“You said you were not courting me.”

“I’m not, hündchen.”

He offers you a hand that you readily accept, hardly having time to marvel over just how cold his skin feels without his glove before you find your cheek pressed to a broad chest. Your breath catches in your throat, heart hammering with the urgency of a cricket’s song.

“You didn’t sleep well either?”

“Nein.”

“Maybe we could sleep together?,” you offer with a laugh that sounds stiff even to your own ears.

You expect some other quip about the status of your peculiar relationship, not a sigh, not the way König gently lowers you back into bed and climbs in to follow, not at your side, but rested with his head over the swell of your breasts. You’re almost certain your rib cage will bruise by the pounding in your chest this infatuation burdens you with.

He hums contentedly at the contact, props his chin up on the valley between your breasts.

“Warm,” he murmurs.

You reach to pull the blanket over you both without a word, staring up at the velvet curtain as you try to force yourself into a state of calm indifference.

It lasts for all of a single breath; König shifts, stroking over the fabric of your gown, bunching over your hip. His touch makes you shiver, too cold, as though he doesn’t have any body heat at all. Your arm settles over the expanse of his back, pulling him just a tad closer as you relax into the feather-stuffed mattress.

“Ja… I like this.”

“I do too...”

So, you sleep, so intertwined with one another that your body heat melts away the frigid touch of his own flesh with no discernment for where you end and he begins. Your dreams are absent in his presence, replaced by a solace you’ve never known as a comfortable stillness settles over you both.

When morning comes, an unhurried sun casting a dull glow through the arched window in the room, you’re pleasantly surprised to find him still here. You’ve shifted in the lack of dreaming, finding your positions opposite to when sleep had taken its hold; your head rests on König’s chest now, comfortably slow. He doesn’t feel as cold, though…

König does not breathe.

You hurriedly rise, throwing the covers off of you both and shove at him with a panicked urgency, desperately searching for any sort of reaction from him to ensure he hasn’t passed away in his sleep.

It’s not a corpse’s silence that you’re met with but an annoyed huff of breath as he grabs at your wrists and tugs you back down.

“Was..?” Your specter only sounds annoyed as he gazed down at you, keeping your trembling hands steady in his unyielding grip.

“You weren’t breathing! I thought…” You trail off, the words catching in your throat as you realize just how ridiculous that you sound. Of course he wasn’t dead. Even if he were a reanimation, no magic in the entirety of this kingdom would allow him to retain so much of his soul.

König only laughs at that, closes you in an embrace that sets your pulse racing again as he carefully maneuvers you below him. When he had become so familiar mattered not, you wouldn’t dare to complain. It’s achingly comfortable, brings a sigh from your parted lips as you fall back into that perfect, placid state of contentment.

“Hündchen… you worry too much,” he huffs, caging you in as he relaxes with his face pressed back to the divot between your breasts. “So many questions… too many concerns, ja?”

“I would not fret so much if you would just explain a few things.”

“Geduld.”

Though you do pout, make a show of your irritation by exhaling heavily, his tone harbors a calm finality. You’re not so sure that any reasoning for all of this would matter much at all anymore; whether it be a dream or some gentle corner of an afterlife you’ve found yourself tucked within, you only find that you never wish for it to end.

— — —

This dream is worse than any before it.

You feel your vessel’s emotions tenfold; a clamor of disquiet and rage, vicious and searing. The air is still and silent but heavy with the scent of iron. From the blurred view that you’re granted, the shapes of cadavers are easy enough to tell, all lain twisted in glistening pools of their own blood.

Your vessel isn’t moving, though you will your thoughts to encourage him to do so, he remains in place, a pillar destined to topple.

You don’t want to see it, yet waking eludes you.

The sounds of hurried footsteps fill the quiet, a shout to your right that you do not even have the capability to turn towards. Cursed are hissed, warbled and unfamiliar, only recognized by their venom. You know that this is the end, a brutal, grisly one for your counterpart and for these dreams in their entirety.

When wicked steel carves it’s way into your vessel’s middle, you feel how tightly he clenched his jaw to bite back a howl of agony, take the subdued, shooting pain spreading through him as though it were your own. Try as you might, you can not wake; forced to be a voyeur to this stranger that you’ve grown fond of’s gruesome demise.

The vessel’s head is tugged forward, forced to kneel at the feet of the brute who has buried a dagger into his side. A sneer paints the man’s face as your counterpart’s veil is thrown away, and you recognize it— that same shroud of black, stained with imagined tears as it falls to a small heap onto a bloodstained floor.

König.

You wake with a start in a haze of utter confusion, catching your breath as the truth of it all crawls down to settle someplace within you. A cold sweat settles over your skin, bringing with it the rise of slight goose pimples and an incessant tremble.

The specter is just as you had suspected in that brief moment between bonding and sleep, dead and long-forgotten; a corpse made man again. This isn’t some silent kingdom, but a well-preserved crypt.

It hurts.

You wash your face in the water of the small basin at the corner of the room, change from your bed gown into a dress of a drab gray. Even to yourself, mourning a truth that’s been glaring you in the face since your arrival feels misplaced and odd, but that horrible sadness does not subside.

At least, not until you pry your door open to find König waiting just on the other side. He cocks his head at you, gaze softening in a silent understanding as your hand is fitted into his own.

The morning walk is less quiet this morning, a single dove could be heard cooing, hidden beneath the green of some sprawling alder’s leaves. König speaks to, explains some without giving all away. He tells you what he can remember, the details of his failed courting of the foreign princess with dark eyes and a petrified stare, the plot against him that dwindled out into a curse that’s left him here, but never an estimate for how long.

You listen in a perplexed silence, clutching his hand just a bit tighter as each questioning cobweb is swept away with a low voice droning out a story better left untold.

When he finishes, with your free hand sifting it’s fingers through the petals adorning a hydrangea shrub, you think to tell him one simple truth: “I can’t bring you back.”

It startles you when he suddenly pulls you in, resting his chin atop your head and curling those broad arms over your shoulders. The embrace is tight, a certain desperation in his touch as though he almost fears the thought of you pulling away. Strange from a man you now knew had not even feared his own death.

“Nein. I just want to be understood.”

And you do understand, perfectly, as only one also touched by the rot could.

— — —

There’s never a night that you don’t find yourself asleep with König mere centimeters away, if there is any gap between at all, anymore. He feigns his breath until you’re fast asleep, takes to playing human enough to not worry you any further, even after you explain that it doesn’t, not any longer. Always, you wake to his head buried against your chest, listening to the fragile beating of your heart until you stir to wake him. Your hands rove over his veil, but never question what he hides beneath it. You already know without seeing— the wicked, sprawling scar from where his head was once wrenched from his body.

A necromancer and a lich, of all things. If the bards in the King’s city were to ever know, your story would be passed from tavern to tavern until it became little more than the stuff of myth.

The thought occurs to you when you wake, huffing a drowsy little giggle as you repeat your morning ritual, fingertips grazing over the dark fabric obscuring König’s face until heavy eyelids languidly part to focus his attention on that mirthful expression painted across your face.

“I have changed my mind,” he declares some moments later as he nuzzles in the divide between your neck and shoulder, unhurried and gentle as he always seems to be with you.

“Hm?”

“I will court you.” A statement that would make most with a better grasp on the disparity between what’s living and dead flinch back in horror. Though, where most would consider corruption, you only take it as further confirmation to your mutual devotion.

“You already have been.”

He falls silent at that for a moment, trailing a cold path of chaste kisses along your jaw, lazy and soft to a point you can feel the grin beneath his hood.

Finally, he hums in agreement.

“Then I should have you, hm?”

He drags a palm down your thigh to your knee, the pad of his thumb bunching up the fabric of your gown as he presses against you, tracing small circles.

Your mouth feels dry when you part your lips to speak once more. The words falter, engulfed in a far more desperate flame; someplace far off, in the back of your mind you can hear them echo, bouncing from cavern walls.

“Hündchen..,” he rasps quietly. Maybe he’s thought it too, that this should be far more innocent, but the way he furiously tugs your undergarments down to your ankles belies his interest far more than some ideal, ancient telling of courtship would ever allow.

“You want to..?”

König laughs, whether it’s at your words or the surprise on your face, you didn’t know. Despite your nudity, he doesn’t look at you down there, his eyes remain locked on your face. There’s something wild and uncanny about them, something bordering on madness. His breathing is heavier, as if he’s fighting back the urge to bury his head in your cunt and breathe you in, and you’re almost certain that after all of your yearning he could bring you to ruin from a puff of breath alone.

He echoes your question with barely contained amusement, until you breathe out your consent. You sound just uncertain enough to prompt him to pull away briefly, raising up to look you in the eyes as his own narrow in search of any signs of apprehension. Finding none, a heavy palm meets your chest to push you to lie down in full as his head dives between your thighs without hesitation.

The feeling of a wide tongue slipping over your slit prompts an immediate reaction— a sharp cry that has you slamming your palm over your mouth in an effort to not break the peace settled over this place.

Every lick is slow and deliberate, a far cry from enough stimulation to properly get you off. It’s as if he’s doing this to prepare you rather than bring you to ruin. His tongue thrusts into you at a languid pace, fucking you open with heady muscle rather than the cold touch of his fingers. For that you’re grateful, but it just isn’t enough.

König huffs another chuckle against your sex when you whine and buck your hips, desperately searching for a friction that just isn’t being supplied. His hands press against your hips to hold you in place, the pads of his thumbs circling against your abdomen as he tries to set you at ease.

“Be patient,” he mumbles as he raises his head, bottom lip slowly raking over the hood of your aching clit. You find it difficult to comply, but in a way you feel fortunate to even experience this much. Who else could say that they were being fucked by the tongue of a titan and be believed? His lips close around your sensitive bud, tongue languidly circling over it, kissing you there as gently as he can manage. The very moment a moan is pulled from you, breaking the silence of his concentration he tears back to lick far further down than you were prepared for, before climbing over you instead of allowing you a release.

The taste of you lingers on his tongue when your face is pushed beneath the veil, an urgent probing as he thrusts the muscle into your waiting mouth, sampling the mixture of your saliva and slick. A palm is splayed over your thigh, forcing you to open yourself to him despite the strain.

He proves he’s less patient than he pretends to be; that’s all of the preparation that you get.

A breath later you feel yourself speared open, the girth of his tip slipping into you with involuntary resistance. Your gasp is met with a keening groan from his open mouth, quickly stifled as he bites into the side of your neck. Each thrust is shallow, the head of his cock spreading you meticulously until you’re nearly in tears from your own impatience. His body temperature is far cooler than your own, and you feel as if you’re more of a mess than you’ve ever been prior as his own precum mixes with the arousal already freely dribbling past your swollen labia.

You kick your leg out, force your hips in a different angle to push him in deeper only to have his grip tighten and his teeth dig into your flesh. Again and again, until you’re a babbling mess beneath him.

“König… please..,” You manage to choke out, voice small and barely audible over the obscene sounds pulled from the wetness of your cunt.

Immediately, your pleading is answered with a slam of his hips, the thick cock forced to its hilt inside of your pulsing walls. König’s head lolls back, his free hand curling over your hip as he grunts. He isn’t making love to you, but fucking into you like a man possessed. A palm fitted over your mouth wouldn’t silence the obscene sounds of sex, nor the bed creaking beneath your combined weight as he pumps into you; each drag is pure rapture as he fills you entirely.

The repetitive spearing of your sweet spot brings you to a near-painful orgasm, trembling cunt only sucking him in further with each pulsing wave of bliss. The quiet is forgotten entirely as you whine out your praises between wanton moans and breathy cries.

He kisses you, proper and sweet when he comes. The thickness of his seed floods you, spilling out onto the sheets below as he fucks it back into you, his pace never slowing until the throbbing of his cock comes to an abrupt end.

The hand holding your leg in place retreats to gently brush your cheek, his thumb grazing beneath your eye until you reach for his wrist to pull it down to kiss over his palm. He returns your kisses with a breathy laugh before pressing his forehead to your own, kissing from the tip of your nose down to your chin.

“I do understand,” you whisper against cool flesh.

“Ja… because you were made for me.”

You don’t disagree.

This morning is the first you’ve caught sight of a breeze, gently pushing at the curtains lining the bed, the first you’ve heard of any semblance of life beyond yourself. When your eyelids flutter shut, relaxation prying away any residual tension, you almost think you can hear the pounding of a second heart— one you can only think to wish together with your own.

#könig x reader #könig x you #konig x reader #konig x you #cod fanfiction #könig #konig #and now i sleep for 40hrs farewell everyone everywhere

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faerieroyal · 2 months

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𝐃𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐘’𝐒 𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄’𝐒 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐒 !

— ❥ 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫: 𝐨𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫 𝐩𝐢𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢 + 𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞

( warnings: swearing, mentions of alcohol and drinking, mentions of crying, my wishful thinking for the upcoming f1 season )

“and that’s it! oscar piastri is the winner of the 2024 australian grand prix!”

for possibly the very first time, you’re very glad you and oscar don’t have any pets; it’s entirely possible the scream you let out right at this moment would give any small animals in hearing distance a heart attack. leaping off of your bed, you let the adrenaline and pure joy of this moment overtake you, jumping all around your bedroom and whooping as you punch your fists into the air.

if you’re this excited, you muse once you’ve calmed down enough to pause and catch your breath, you can only imagine how happy and overwhelmed oscar must be feeling. he’s just won his first grand prix, and even better, he’s just won his home race.

your boyfriend has just become a formula one race winner. you wish, from the bottom of your heart, that you had a younger version of oscar standing in front of you right now, so you could tell him that all the work he was putting in would be worth it some day. you suspect that oscar himself would probably want to do the same thing.

practically flinging yourself back onto your bed, you pull your computer back onto your lap, just in time to watch max verstappen shower your boyfriend in champagne from where he stands on the second step of the podium. oscar laughs on your screen as the golden liquid pours over his shoulders and turns to spray max in return, but the camera filming him also picks up the red rimming his eyes and the tears still glistening on his face - happy tears, you can only assume, from all the emotions he must be feeling at a moment as amazing as this.

he looks strangely beautiful like this, taking a moment to drink from his own champagne bottle with skin flushed from adrenaline and emotion and glistening with overjoyed tears and champagne, and you wish desperately that you could be there with him. you’d both known going into this relationship that you wouldn’t be able to attend every race, of course, since you have a life of your own and a job that doesn’t allow you to work remotely, but that doesn’t mean not being there in person to celebrate with him after a good race or comfort him after a bad one doesn’t suck sometimes. it sucks more than ever right now, when something as fucking incredible as this has just happened and you can’t be there to give your talented, beautiful oscar a congratulatory kiss and spend the whole night telling him how proud you are of him.

once the stream on your computer switches to media interviews, you switch it off and close the laptop - as much as you want to keep watching oscar basking in the glow of his win, you know he hates media anyway, and as mean as it might be, you don’t really want to have to sit through the interviews with other drivers that will be shown before they get to your boyfriend. besides, you still have things to get done tonight while you wait for oscar to give you his usual after-race call.

it’s something you and oscar always do, after a race and the debrief and everything else he has to do on a race. normally, your facetime calls can last for hours as you talk and laugh and sometimes just stay silent, taking each other in, and they’re something you’ve come to treasure, but you’re sure your call tonight won’t last nearly as long. oscar has just won his first formula one race; no doubt he’s going to be taken out to party and celebrate the moment he’s showered and changed, and that isn’t going to leave a lot of time for a call with you. which, honestly, you’re more than fine with - you want him to go out and have fun, to celebrate his win even if you can’t be there to do it with him.

the call comes in as you’re sitting on your living room couch folding laundry, a candid picture of oscar making an exaggeratedly sour face in his mcclaren suit popping up on your phone screen. hurriedly you toss the pair of shorts you’ve been folding to the side and scoop up the phone to answer it, oscar’s beautiful, smiling face taking up your screen as the connection goes through.

“oscar jack fucking piastri,” you exclaim before he has the chance to get a word out. “how dare you win your first race without me there. i oughta break up with you right now.”

oscar chuckles, dipping his head and allowing a few stray strands of hair to fall into his face, making him look terribly soft and sweet. his hair still looks sticky with champagne and sweat, you notice; he didn’t even wait to shower before calling you.

“well, sorry about that,” he replies in an amused voice. “here’s hoping you’ll be there when i win the next one so we can celebrate properly. i mean, lando offered to give me a congrats kiss in your place, but i doubt he would’ve been any good at it.”

you lean your head back laughing at that, before agreeing, “yeah, here’s hoping. so what are you doing to celebrate? gonna show lando and logan australia’s hottest clubs?”

oscar snorts, and then says something totally and completely unexpected, at least to you: “nah. ‘m staying in tonight. would rather talk to you anyway.”

“what?” you burst out, shocked. you’ve known since you met him that oscar’s never really been one for crowded social settings, especially ones as loud as clubs tend to be, but you’d assumed this would be an exception. “oscar, you just won a fucking formula one race. your first one. and you’re not gonna go out and celebrate that?”

“i am celebrating,” he replies, completely casually, like the two of you are just talking about the weather and you’re not trying to talk him out of ditching celebrating a race win just to talk to you. “i’m celebrating by spending the whole night talking to my awesome partner who I really wish was actually here right now - or at least the whole night after i take a shower, probably, ‘cause my hair feels kinda gross right now-” he runs a hand through his locks, looking a bit sheepish. “-instead of going out and getting shitfaced and watching logan completely fail at flirting. much rather be doing this than that, i promise.”

once the shock of his plans for the night fades, you think, for a brief second, that you could honestly cry right now. here’s your boyfriend, having just achieved a dream that you know he’s been working towards since he was old enough to drive a kart, and instead of going out and drinking and dancing with his friends to celebrate… he just wants to spend the night talking to you. it’s such a simple expression of love, really, simple and wordless, but it’s so utterly tender and sweet that you wish, not for the first time tonight, that you were there with oscar right now, so you could kiss all over his beautiful face and let him know how much you love him right back.

“i mean, unless you had plans tonight,” oscar continues, completely oblivious to your adoring inner monologue, and his sheepish expression increases. “sorry, i should’ve asked, it’s totally cool if you have something else-”

“no, no,” you interrupt, shaking your head vehemently. “i don’t have any plans, it’s fine. and even if i did i’d probably cancel them. i’d rather be here with you than somewhere else, too, osc.”

oscar blinks in response to that, before a shy little half-smile takes over his face, and he asks softly, “yeah?”

“yeah,” you say with a soft smile of your own, and you hope that that facial expression conveys everything you can’t quite put into words - how much you love him, how unbelievably proud you are of him, how absolutely fucking grateful you are to have him in your life, to have someone who will do things like this for you without a second thought, because that’s just the kind of person he is.

you’re pretty sure a simple smile doesn’t convey all of that, but you’re also not sure you’ll ever be able to put all of that into words that will convey how much you mean the sentiment. so you settle, in this moment, for doing what oscar wants: you settle back into the couch cushions, bring your legs up to your chest so that you can rest the hand holding your phone on your knee, and begin, “so, you will not believe what happened at work today…”

formula one taglist: @whiskeyswriting, @lovings4turn !

general taglist: @maddipoof, @thatmagickjuju, @talkingturnedtoscreamss, @malafvma, @auxiliarydetective, @heliads, @oneirataxia-girl !

( send me an ask if you want to be added to a taglist !! )

#(.⋆꙳‧ my works !! ‧꙳⋆.)#— ❥ dolly writes drabbles !!#— ❥ valentine’s love language shorts !!#— ❥ dolly’s celeb beloveds: oscar piastri !!#oscar piastri drabble #oscar piastri x reader #f1 drabble #f1 x reader #formula one drabble #formula one x reader #gender-neutral reader

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ghost-bxrd · 2 months

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Okay, but consider the Robins as the animal brides trope? For the unfamiliar, that's where a guy helps out an animal, and then a few days later a beautiful woman, often with useful talents, shows up and marries him. Eventually, the guy gets suspicious, does some investigating, and then it turns out the woman is actually the animal he saved a long time ago. Of course, figuring it out causes the animal to run away and never return... (1/2)

That sounds so cute! But also super angsty!!!!

But also at this point?? Imagine Jason showing up the next day at Bruce’s doorstep and the first time him and Dick meet it’s just the spiderman meme:

And Jason and Dick have this whole “does he know?” “No he doesn’t!” “Are you sure?” “Yes so keep it down will you!” “You didn’t violate our rules?” No! Now shut up!” kind of exchange just by looking at each other while Bruce stands off to the side, internally panicking because he thinks he’s about to lose both kids by accidentally breaking a rule about only having one shapeshifter(?) in his home.

But then Jason shrugs and goes about his day as usual, Dick does the same, and that’s that. And Bruce just does this big exhale because— that’s a bullet he dodged back there, right?

Anyway, he couldn’t be happier. He’s got TWO sons now. Two incredible, wonderful (somewhat magical) children and he couldn’t be happier.

And then Tim shows up and it’s the same kind of headache he had with the other two. Those tense few minutes of “shit, is this breaking the rules?” But Tim doesn’t have the same initial moment of apprehension. He just skips on right inside and attaches himself to the other two kids like a limpet (he’s been watching them for a while now and just waited for the right moment to “need saving” form Bruce).

Meanwhile Dick and Jason are both a bit hostile (none of them would leave even if Bruce were to suddenly tell them he knew about their identities. That’s their home now. Magical rules can screw themselves.) because Tim has the potential to destroy their peaceful little haven— but Tim just wants his coffee and maybe some cuddles if he’s lucky. He’d never jeopardize this little paradise they’ve built for themselves.

Meanwhile Bruce: making frequent reminders on every device that he must never bring up magic and shape shifting around his children. He’s terrified of losing them and still convinced they’d leave at the first sign of him knowing.

#prompts #loving this trope #animal brides but parent edition #batdad #Batman #jason todd #batfamily #dick grayson #batfam #bruce wayne #robin #tim drake

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brummiereader · 6 months

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She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not (ONE SHOT/ DARK!TOMMY & YANDERE! ARTHUR)

Summary: Enter the mad paranoia of Tommy and his brother Arthur as they try to prove to themselves that you and Bunny's loyalty belongs with them after their discovery of your planned escape.

Warnings: Language, violence, angst, mentions of blood, mentions of murder, psychological mind games, psychological manipulation, psychological abuse, controlling behaviour, Dark!Tommy & Yandere!Arthur (This is a dark fic, please read the warnings before continuing)

Authors Note: This story is a merge of two worlds, Dark!Tommy & Y/N from "Killing Me Softly" and Yandere!Arthur & Bunny from "Hey Bunny", written by my incredibly talented friend and mutual @call-sign-shark. I can't recommend enough to go and check out her fantastic series!

" Look at 'em Tom" Arthur said quietly to his brother as he turned his back to you and Bunny from across the room sitting at the large mahogany table next to eachother. " They think we don't know what they're up to" he grinned darkly as his younger brother smirked in agreement, watching you pull up the strap of your emerald dress. Little did you know yours and Bunny's plan to escape the shackles of torment the two Shelby brothers had been relentlessly inflicting on you both would soon be eclipsed by another plan, one the siblings had concocted a fortnight ago after finding out your intentions to flee. "Why would they do that ay, scheming behind our backs like that? Don't they fucking love us? " Arthur said through gritted teeth, his mood quickly changing from anticipation of playing out their sadistic game to a temper rapidly rising within him. Volatile, unhinged and quick to snap. If Tommy wanted the night to go as planned he needed to calm his brothers erratic emotions and keep control of the situation.

" Here" Tommy said pulling out a small blue bottle of cocaine from his suit pocket which Arthur snatched out of his hand like a starved animal, snorting its contents within a few seconds. " After tonight we'll... Ey! Arthur, Listen!" Tommy said tapping the side of his brothers cheek in attempts to hold his attention as Arthur wiped the remnants of the white powder from his nose. " After tonight we'll know. We'll no where their loyalties stand" Tommy said with his hand firmly placed on his older brothers shoulder as Arthur nodded his head glancing over at Bunny.

"I can't lose my Bunny Tommy" Arthur said, his eyes wide, his body suddenly jittery with panic as he looked back to his brother.

" Fuck sake..." Tommy mumbled under his breath. Clearly the sweet release of his brothers preferred drug of choice hadn't warranted the affect he had hoped for or at least, not yet. " Arthur will you calm the fuck down, you're starting to creep me out" he replied cocking a brow as he returned to looking at you. His eyes roaming over your body as he bit his bottom lip imagining you naked as he pinned you...

" Tom, Tom..." Arthur said nudging his brothers arm with his elbow, breaking him out of his fantasy or rather, the plans he had for you at the end of the evening.

"She nearly escaped a few weeks ago" Arthur said quietly as he looked over to Bunny staring aimlessly into her glass, watching the amber liquid glisten from the warm light of the chandeliers as the soft music from the gramophone played out.

" And I told you. You gotta double lock. They're sneaky Arthur, they'll try and find a way out" Tommy replied as Arthur's eyes cast down to the wooden floorboards, mentally scolding himself for forgetting his brothers wise words of wisdom. After all, Tommy had become an expert in this field of debauchery. "Chin up, ey?"

" Yeh Tom, yeh..." Arthur replied as he pinched his bottom lip together, sniffing back his worries. " Right, fuck" he said clapping his hands together shaking of the last remnants of his wandering paranoia.

" That's it brother. Come on, let's have some fun" he said patting his back as they strode over to you both, the evenings festivities minutes away from starting. "Bunny" Tommy said with a smirk etched on his face as Arthur stood beside him, biting his inner cheek as he tried to hold back his excited amusement. " Sweetheart" he said sending you a wink as he looked at you from head to toe, his eyes glazing over with a smoky hue of lust as he got lost in his thoughts once again. "You two have been busy, haven't you?" Tommy said as he lit a cigarette looking between you both as Arthur wagged his index finger back and forth.

"Con..cocting something" Arthur added, his jaw tightening at the mere thought of deception as Bunny's hand squeezed yours under the table, her pulse beating so fast you could feel it vibrating against your skin.

"Arthur" Tommy said nodding to his brother who reached under the table, pulling out both of your suitcases. " Tut tut tut, going on a holiday without us, huh ladies?" Tommy said with a smirk glaring at you as your eyes widened in disbelief. You had both been so careful, so diligent in your plans. It was a miracle you managed to get as far as you had with the few times Arthur had brought Bunny over to Arrow house. "Your clothes, the children's clothes. Did you not pack anything of mine for this little getaway?" Tommy said as Arthur slammed the suitcases onto the table in front of you, pouring out both of their contents.

" Yeh, didn't see my swimming trunks in there Bunny" Arthur spat as he stared her down, the vein in his neck protruding from his escalating fury.

" A..Arthur, I...I" Bunny sobbed, stumbling her words out as Arthur loomed over the table, his fists clenched so tight they turned a ghostly shade of white. He was keeping her safe, keeping her from the dangers this city held for every woman that dared to venture out alone, why didn't she see that? Who knows what crazed person she could have run into, it's a good thing he was there to stop her from making that mistake. Arthur thought to himself as he stood up straight, rolling his shoulders of the tension that had been building up.

" Now you've both been very naughty. And we don't like naughty girls do we brother?" Tommy said picking up one of your lace knickers from within the pile by the end of his finger, cocking a brow as he put it in his suit jacket.

" No we don't. We like respectable, honest, loyal...obedient girls" Arthur said sniffing back the remnants of the cocaine he had snorted.

"That's right. You see, me and Arthur are starting to feel like your loyalty doesn't belong with, like you don't... love us"

" We feel betrayed, unappreciated"

" Those are strong word's brother. But betrayed and used we are, and after everything we have done for you" Tommy said furrowing his brow, an expression of hurt spread across his face, believable if it wasn't for the smirk playing mischievously on the corner of his mouth. "So, seeing how you two like to play games we have each come up with a way you can prove your loyalty to us and put our poor tired minds at ease. Right Arthur..."

" Tommy... darling, wait..." You panicked, tears welling in your eyes as Bunny quietly whimpered beside you, her hand now gripping yours even tighter.

" Not now sweetheart. The games about to start" Tommy said as he stood up from the edge of the table. "Arthur, if you don't mind" he said taking a drag of his cigarette as he leaned against the back of the sofa behind him.

" Eeny, meeny, miny, moe..." Arthur started to sing as his finger moved from you to Bunny. "Catch a spider by.."

" Tiger Arthur, it's fucking tiger" Tommy sighed, rubbing his brow with his thumb.

" Same bloody thing" Arthur replied snapping his head back to his brother about to finish the rhyme when Tommy interjected again.

"Tell me eh, when was the last time you saw a spider with toes Arthur?" Tommy huffed as he and Arthur started get into an argument over the words to the nursery rhyme whilst bunny squeezed your hand, her eyes darting to the door then back to you to which you furiously shook your head at. There was no way you would both make it out, no matter how intense their ridiculous argument was getting. Whatever punishment was heading your way would be far worse if you tired to take your chances and make a run for it. " Alright! Alright! Just get on with it" Tommy said giving up, as Arthur's face lit up with a satisfied grin.

" It's toe, if it wiggles..." He said stopping his finger at bunny, wagging his finger from side to side with a unhinged grin on his face. " I'm gonna come over there and make you wiggle" Arthur giggled climbing over the table to Bunny when Tommy kicked the bottom of his boot.

" Arthur, behave " Tommy chuckled, they were enjoying this, their twisted little game no doubt the highlight of their week.

"Let it go, eeny, meeny, miny, moe" Arthur finished his finger pointing at you." You're up Y/N" Arthur announced as Tommy stood up grinning from ear to ear. " Y/N get up" Arthur said with his arms on his hips huffing as he looked back to Tommy. He wanted his turn and you were holding up the nights festivities with your reluctance to move. " She ain't budging Tom"

" Tommy please I'm sorry. I got scared, we got scared we panicked. Tommy our children..." You said tears streaming down your face as your eyes darted from Bunny to your husband .

" It's true Arthur, we just..." Bunny started to say as she swallowed back her tears.

" See this is the kind of shit you shouldn't fool for. Crocodile tears that's all that is. Arthur, please..." Tommy said cutting Bunny off as he motioned to the table, which Arthur flipped over in one quick motion.

" Aw would you look at that Tom. They're holding hands" Arthur pointed out to his brother at you and Bunny still clinging onto eachother for dear life, a film of sweat the only thing separating you.

" Adorable" Tommy said as he blew a cloud of smoke through the smirk on the corner of his mouth.

" Sister in law's supporting eachother, it's gonna make me cry." Arthur taunted as Bunny's eyes snapped to him, her face suddenly going a deathly shade of white at the thought of being shackled to this crazed man for life. " Yehh that's right Bunny, gonna make a Shelby out of you one day. Put a Shelby in that belly too. Maybe we'll skip the wedding part first, ay? He grinned as his tongue pressed on the roof of his mouth, his rabid eyes roaming over her body.

" Come on Arthur your scaring her" Tommy chuckled darkly as he flicked the ash of the end of his cigarette onto the floor.

"Yeh well, you're already on your third I gotta catch up" Arthur replied in annoyance that his baby brother was ahead of him in anything.

"What can I say I have strong swimmers" Tommy smirked winking to you. The only reason why Tommy was now a father of three was he never gave your body a moment's rest before he would climb on top of you again and have his way after each birth of your children, you were a laying hen, not a wife. "Come on darling, up you get" Tommy said walking over to you as he grabbed you by your arm, pulling you away from Bunny whose hand was still desperately holding onto yours, both of you now crying uncontrollably, every sob every whimper laced in terror. Breaking you apart, Arthur grabbed hold of Bunny as she scrambled forward to you.

" Now now Bunny, we have to take turns " Arthur said as his hand came down to her waist his fingers lacing between the soft fabric of her white flowing dress, one he had brought especially for her. She looked so innocent so pure. But Why was she crying, tonight was supposed to be fun? He thought to himself as he tried to catch her eye, her refusal to do so twisting his stomach into a knot of anger that he quickly digested before he lost his temper and spoiled the evenings games. "Come on Bunny" he said guiding her over to the sofa as you and Tommy were now sat opposite eachother at a small table in the corner of the room.

" Do you love me Y/N?" Tommy asked as he pulled a revolver from his holster.

"Of...of course..." You replied sniffing back your tears as he placed it on the table in front of you both, your eyes widening further as he pulled out one single bullet. You were used to Tommy's mind games, but they never involved lethal weapons like the one sitting in front of you. He had already warned you to never attempt to run again, and this time you had been so brazen about your plan you had made it clear with the contents of your suitcase you intended to take his children too.

" And do you trust me?" He asked sitting back as he spun the bullet on the table in a circle.

" Tommy... what's happening, what are you going to do? You replied, your voice shaking as you looked at the bullet spin around one last time, the curved edge now pointing at you.

" I'm the one asking question, now do you trust me?"

"Tommy..."

"Answer the fucking question Y/N!" Tommy snapped slamming his fist onto the table as Arthur giggled at his brothers outburst of anger. " You're making me angry love, and you know what happens when I get angry"

" I trust you Tommy" you quickly reassured him as Tommy glared at you, playing with the bullet between his fingers.

" Good" he said taking the gun, his hand hovering over the chamber as you closed your eyes, blinking the tears away from your blurry vision." We're going to play a little game" he said snapping it shut, spinning the cylinder before placing it back between you both. " Russian Roulette. Learnt it from some batshit crazy Russian years ago. Didn't want to play with her, but I do with you" Tommy smirked as he looked at the confusion on your face having never heard of the game." You won't have to worry your pretty little head with the rules. It's simple" he said, taking every opportunity he could to belittle you. " One bullet, 6 chambers. We take turns firing the gun..." he paused watching your eyes widen " Right here" he finished pointing to the side of his temple, when you abruptly stood up, pushing your chair back as Tommy reached over the table grabbing your arm.

" Tommy no, you're sick! You're fucking insane. I won't do this, I fucking won't!" You shouted to him trying to pull away from his vice-like grip circling your wrist.

" Yes love I know, I'm such a bad man" Tommy said sarcastically having heard you already insult him plenty of times before. " But you will play or else I'll send one of the girls away. And you'll never see them again. Do you understand me?"

" No! You can't do that, Tommy..." You pleaded as he pulled you down back into your chair. Three daughters, you had given him three beautiful girls in the short time you had been married, but that wasn't enough. Tommy wanted a son, an army of sons. And with his lack of a paternal bond with his daughters you knew he wasn't bluffing.

" I can and I will. It's not like we can't have another. He smirked, pushing the gun towards you. " Ladies first"

"Tommy .." you pleaded one last time as you looked at the gun in front of you.

" You're testing my patience sweetheart. If you really want to do this, then fine" Tommy said as he leaned back in his chair looking over his shoulder to the door." Frances, bring me the baby" Tommy called out his eyes darting back to see the fear rising within you as he waited for a response, waited for you to play along. Within seconds you picked up the gun, sobbing as tears streamed down your face. "Never mind" he called out as he nodded his head to the gun in your hand. Lifting the revolver to your temple you squeezed your eyes shut, the coolness from the metal pressing against your skin sending a shiver down your spine. You would die for your children if it meant keeping them safe, if it meant keeping them from their father's torment. With your finger resting above the trigger you closed your eyes, hoping for a way out, from this life, from him. The gun pressed against your head didn't feel so damming after all...click. The chamber was empty, no bullet spent. You was still here, you was still alive. Gasping for air you threw the gun on the table which Tommy picked up, instantly putting it to his head and pulling the trigger without a second thought. Another click. No shot fired. The second turn mirrored the first. Through sobbing tears and thoughts of your children you pulled the trigger again, while Tommy's calm demeanor stayed exactly that, calm. Only two chambers left, one empty one with a bullet that would end either one of your lives.

" Tommy please, I love you, I trust you. We don't need to do this, we dont need to prove anything." You cried as Tommy took the gun putting it in your hand and placing it to your head.

" Pull it Y/N" Tommy said pushing your finger over the trigger.

" Tommy!" You wept uncontrollably, as a rush of fear overtook you, the sudden thought of your children being motherless the only thing holding you back from the years of torment you wanted to escape.

" Fucking pull it! he yelled at you as you wailed holding onto his arm, begging him to stop."Pull it!" He shouted again as you closed your eyes, the image of your daughter's playing within the grounds of Arrow House flashing before you...click. Dropping the gun on the table your hand flew to you mouth, you felt sick physically sick. But with no time to reflect on what had just happened Tommy had the gun already pointed to the side of his head...click. The gun was empty, it had been fucking empty all this time.

" See Tommy lad, she does trust you!" Arthur cheered as you abruptly stood up from your chair, your hands out behind you as you stumbled back away from Tommy's piercing stare, away from the smirk and enjoyment spread across his face.

"You tricked me! " you screamed as Tommy stood up and marched towards you, pinning you between the wall as his body.

" What, you think I want the mother of my children dead or fatherless? Oh darling, I never play by the rules, you should know that by now" he said as his hand cupped your cheek his eyes centimeters from yours. " I told you to trust me and you did, there's no doubt where your loyalty stands where your love stands" he said quietly in your ear, a slow exhale of hot air from his lips sending a wave of goosebumps down you neck.

" Look how your getting me" he smiled against your delicate flesh as he grabbed your hand cupping it around the growing bulge under his suit trousers, his aroused state throbbing under your hand as you turned your head away in disgust at his sadistic kink. " I'm gonna fuck you so hard tonight, I'll put a fourth in you. A fucking son." Tommy seethed in your ear whilst an untimely hint of a smirk graced your lips, unable to hold back the satisfaction that Tommy, the man who gets what he wants whenever he wants didn't have control over mother nature. You should have known better than to let it slip, for everything you did that displeased Tommy was worthy of punishment, and that small smirk hadn't gone unnoticed.

" Don't look Bunny" Arthur laughed with his arm wrapped around her shoulders. " My baby brothers pretty sick, he gets off from that kind of thing. Don't worry though sweetheart, I'm not like that" Arthur said with a smirk, his legs widening, pushing hers further to the edge of the sofa as he glared at her heaving chest.

"Your turn Arthur" Tommy said grabbing your hands, putting them behind your back as he walked you over to the sofa opposite them.

" Y/N..." Bunny cried wanting to reach out to you and she watched you slump into the sofa, the colour drained from your body. You were a broken woman. And as Tommy placed his arm around you, pulling you into his side, his lips ghosting over your neck, she suddenly felt like she was watching her own future. Beaten, broken and tired. Would this be her fate too?

" Bring in the contestants" Arthur jumped up as he walked over to the door snapping Bunny out of the haunting image of herself chained to a life of misery and abuse.

" Come on, fucking move" Arthur said behind the door as he walked in with two young men bound and gagged his gun pointing to their backs. "Kneel" Arthur spat, pushing the two men in front of Bunny as they struggled to keep themselves from falling over at her feet.

"Arthur, what's going on?" she said shifting forward in her seat, her eyes darting in a panic from Arthur to the two men in front of her as your own eyes widened in horror at the realisation of who they were. A chauffeur Tommy had hired only a few weeks ago, a sweet boy who's sole focus was the job in hand. And then...Harry. The stable boy who had been working on the grounds of Arrow House since he was a child. Both innocent young men, but not in the eyes of Arthur. For Arthur they had overstepped the line and he was seeking justice.

"Both of them were ogling you when we visited three weeks ago, so pick" he said matter of fact, without any further detail.

"Pick, what .."

" Pick one" Arthur replied handing her the gun as he sat beside her, his arm back securely draped over her shoulders as she watched the whimpers and cries of both the men, or rather boys hunched over eyes cast down. " So bunny, who's the lucky fella?" Arthur said turning to her staring blankly between both men. "Bunny?"

" Arthur no, nobody looked at me and even if they did I... I only have eyes for you I only want you. " Bunny pleaded knowing the very words he wanted to hear. Smiling, Arthur brushed his thumb down her cheek wiping the lone tear from her soft skin.

"Sorry darling but you're gonna have to pick. Both of these dirty fucks were looking at you, and I can't have that Bunny. But since I'm a forgiving man, a gentleman..." He said his moustache twitching at his high regard for himself. "...you only have to pick one" Arthur said as Bunny started to cry at the realisation she couldn't escape Arthur's sadistic game as much as you couldn't escape yours.

" Arthur, will you get your girl to fucking hurry up" Tommy said moving his lips from your neck for the briefest of seconds, his hand firmly grasped on your hip to stop you from moving.

"I know this is a big decision but you're making my brother upset Bunny " He said kicking the chauffeur, his muffled whimpers irritating him. "He wants to fuck his wife you see, and since we're guests in his house it's only polite we don't make him wait. Tick tock, tick tock" he smiled looking at the gun in her lap then back to her quivering bottom lip. " Fuck sake " he said standing up taking the gun from her realising her unwillingness to play along. Arthur was precariously on the edge of loosing his temper, his thirst for revenge was strong and he wouldn't end this game before one or both men were six feet under. " Which one bunny, the stable boy or the chauffeur" he smiled unnervingly as he pointed the gun at the back of each of the men's head.

"Arthur no! Stop, please..." Bunny pleaded endlessly, her strained efforts going unheard. You can't reason with a mad man, a man not only consumed by his own paranoia but also his obsession and love for the woman he had be holding captive.

" Pick bunny now! Arthur shouted putting the gun down on a small table beside him as he took a pair of black gloves from his back pocket as the muffled sobs of the two men intensified, the suffocating atmosphere in the room only increasing when Arthur picked up the gun again.

" Arthur we...we just greeted one another...it was innocent, don't make me do this dont do this, please..."

" Bunny I ain't repeating myself. Now pick!" He yelled as he pushed both his hands onto his forehead, pushing back the escalating fury within him, trying with all his might to not...snap. "Fucking pick, pick, pick!

"Arthur stop it, stop!" Bunny screamed closing her eyes when a loud gun shot boomed within the four walls and a heavy thud of a body hit the wooden floorboards below them. " Arthur..." Bunny said as she opened her eyes, her bottom lip wobbling in terror as she looked down in front of her to see the young chauffeur laying on the floor, a pool of blood surrounding his lifeless body.

" Picked for ya bunny" Arthur said his chest heaving up and down, hair disheveled, his eyes crazed as he smiled manically at her.

" Fucking hell Arthur, you got blood all over my walls!" Tommy said gesturing with his hand, more bothered about his immaculate home now splattered with blood than the dead body a few feet away from him.

" Sorry 'bout that brother" Arthur said smoothing his hair back away from his face as he looked down at his work, his grin turning into a satisfied smirk.

" Right we all done for tonight?" Tommy said standing up pulling you up with him, his hand snaking along your back down between your thighs as you squirmed under his touch.

" In the big guest room tonight yeh? With the big bed?" Arthur asked grabbing bunny by the arm pulling her trembling body over the lifeless man below her, dismissive of her horrified state, the tears cascading down her cheeks.

" Enjoy" Tommy winked nodding his head to his brother as he pushed you forward out the room. " Light a fire " Tommy said to one of his men standing by the entrance, gesturing back to the room where a night of carnage and terror had just played out, where Harry was still knelt beside the young man whose life had been so brutally taken. With Tommy's hand firmly on the curve of your back you slowly walked up the stairs, your body still trembling from the nights events.

" Arthur your Bunny's hoping away, keep control of it or put it back in its cage " Tommy said as you came to a stop in front of your room, watching Bunny frantically run down the corridor.

" It's alright, we're just playing" Arthur replied with a crazed giggle as he chased after her. Closing the master bedroom door behind him Tommy watched as you stumbled back to the edge of the bed a devilish grin gracing his lips as he stalked forward undoing his belt.

"Now about that smirk..."

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